


All Yours

by omgbubblesomg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Castes, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Sex, Blood and Torture, Bottom Castiel, Dubious Consent, Forced Arousal, Forced Intimacy, Hunter Dean, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Castiel/Benny Lafitte, Implied Castiel/Meg Masters, M/M, Master Castiel, Master/Slave, Minor Meg/Dean, Omega Benny, Omega Castiel, Omega Ellen - Freeform, Omega Meg, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Pheromones, Porn With Plot, Scarred Dean, Sex Slave Dean, Sexual Slavery, Since it's slave/master dynamics, Slave Dean, Slavery, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Dean, scandalised vegetables
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:59:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 38,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9277115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: Master Castiel doesn't need another pleasure slave. He wants something more, something specific. Someone to take himhard. What he needs is an alpha.There's a green-eyed Hunter in the saleyards. He's underfed, and he's got more scars than muscle, but he's quick, and resilient, and he might just be the perfect fit.





	1. The Saleyards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/B/O AU with slave ‘castes’, so every slave has both a social designation (alpha, beta or omega) and a caste (e.g. ‘Warrior’). The masters do not have a caste.

_So, young master, you arrive here, empty-handed on the doorstep, seeking a knowledge you can barely name. Maybe you wish to better understand the Warrior, or discover the difference between the Angel and the Artist. You wonder why there are so many Caretakers, yet so few Hunters or Stargazers, and what attributes separate one from another. Are you more suited to a beta slave? Or perhaps an alpha? What designation and caste will be appropriate for your house?_  
_Maybe the knowledge you seek is intangible, a fraction, as fine as the difference between painter and pleasurer._  
_Or maybe you seek only to own, to conquer._  
_But you will find that you cannot control that which you do not understand._  
_Move closer, young master. Adjust the light. There’s truth, here, yes, but these pages hold beauty too. For what else can it be but beauty? The master of a slave, the slave of a master…_

—Opening from _Understanding Castes_ , by C. M. Cooper

 

“Caretakers to the north! Warriors to the east! Artists to the west!” the loudspeaker blared.

“Hunters on the bottom!” someone shouted. There was a chorus of laughter from everyone except Dean, who was talking to a young beta mistress.

“Yes ma’am, I can fix fences, mow lawns, take your dog for a walk, anything you need.” Dean grinned at her through the bars, being careful to keep his lips closed so she didn’t see his teeth.

Her husband started pulling on her arm. “Come on, honey. We don’t want his kind.” He looked pointedly at the mark on Dean’s neck that distinguished him as a Hunter.

“Oh, but look at him! He can do all those jobs, he could replace the gardener, what was his name?”

The husband kept pulling at her arm, and Dean followed them from his side of the fence. “I can do anything twice as good as whatsisname, sir. I can guarantee that. You won’t ever need a gardener again.”

The husband replied to his wife, ignoring Dean. “Listen, honey, if you want another gardener we’ll go take a look at the Caretaker arena after this. But we can’t bring him home, he’s an alpha.” The wife giggled, and let herself be led away. Dean hit the bars in frustration.

“Hunters on the bottom,” someone sang out.

“Fuck off,” Dean muttered. The Warriors howled with laughter. Dean wasn’t a Warrior, but he’d been thrown in with them on arrival, since there wasn’t a specific Hunter section.

“Hey,” said Dean to a passing teenager. “Want a personal guard?” He flexed his arm. There wasn’t much to flex, but hopefully the teenager wouldn’t know the difference between underfed and beefy.

Apparently, the teenager did. He sneered and walked away, one of the slave handlers directing him to look at the Warriors at the other end. The handler started babbling away about muscle ratios and defence stats. The Warriors bared the necks to show off their caste marks.

Dean sighed, squeezing his nose. The problem was twofold. He was too much a Hunter to be a guard, and too much an alpha to be anything else. He’d been in the saleyards for two years— _two_ —and the slave master couldn’t even _give_ him away. Hunters were obsolete.

“Caretakers to the north! Warriors to the east! Artists to the—”

He turned back to the fence just in time to see the Warrior flying at him. He had a half second to flinch before they collided. This happened every week. The Warriors were looking for masters too, and the best way to show their potential as a guard was to beat the living shit out of someone else.

And that someone always happened to be Dean.

In a fair fight, one-on-one, he stood a chance—especially if he had some kind of weapon—but in a caged arena, surrounded by nothing but bars and dirt, the beefier Warriors owned him. It was usually the omegas and betas too, since they had the most to prove to potential masters, and today was no different.

There were cheers from the other Warriors as they clashed. Dean tried to get in close, to stop the omega from using all her muscle, but she was stronger than him, and pushed him away, giving herself more room to backswing. He dodged, only just missing her fist, and moved back in. He feinted, going in with his elbow, and while she ducked he hooked a foot around her ankle. She stumbled for only a moment, but it was enough. He lunged, pushing her to the ground, and landed on top of her. He snatched at a wrist, and had all of two seconds to growl, “Yield,” before someone grabbed him by the collar and hauled him backwards.

Then it was just a blur of feet and fists as Dean curled forward, covering the back of his head with his hands. In the distance, he could hear the speaker blaring directions to the masters on the other side of the bars.

“Caretakers to the north! Warriors to the east! Artists to the west!”

“Hunters on the bottom!” the omega growled as she kicked him in the gut. Dean retched.

It didn’t take her long to get bored, thankfully. Kicking someone who was already down rarely increased a Warrior’s chance of being sold. Dean took the moment of peace to check that his nose and teeth were still in place. He hoped all his internal organs were where they were supposed to be, too.

“You had her,” came a quiet voice. “You got her to the ground.” There was a master standing in the shadows, watching him from outside the bars.

“Yessir,” Dean agreed, “but the point is to _keep_ them on the ground.” He gingerly touched his cheek, which felt as though it was an inch to the left of where it was supposed to be. It would probably be okay. As a Hunter, he usually healed fairly quickly. “So,” he said conversationally, kneading his scalp for injuries, “can I interest you in a lacklustre guard?”

“Perhaps,” the master replied.

Dean was on his feet in a second. “Sir! I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was lacklustre, not at all, sir! I’m actually an excellent fighter one-on-one, and one of the best shots here, and I’m fast too, sir, real fast, and I—”

 “I can see all this on your file,” the master interjected, “but those are not the qualities I had in mind, Hunter.”

“I’m a quick thinker too, sir. And Hunters have excellent judgement.”

A half smile quirked at one corner of the master’s mouth. “I’m sure they do, Hunter. But again, not quite the attribute I was looking for. Anything else?” Dean wracked his brain. The master began to back away. “Perhaps another slave then,” he murmured.

“Ferocity!” Dean yelled after him.

The master paused, and then took a step forward, bringing himself into the harsh arena lights.

Dean had been trained to never look a master in the eye, of course. As an alpha, he had been trained to look higher, exposing the throat, but, for the first time in his life, he found himself staring into the eyes of this master. They were blue, and deep. His cheeks were smooth and the bones of his brow were muted. He was an omega.

“Sir,” Dean said quickly, aware that his hold was tenuous, “if you take me I can guarantee you’ll never regret your choice for the rest of your life.”

“Is that so?” The master raised one eyebrow. “Don’t Hunters have a problem taking orders?”

Dean knew this one by heart. “That’s a fallacy sir, arising from our quick thinking. We sometimes act without orders against perceived threats or we use our judgement in certain situations.”

“I need someone who can take orders.”

“I’ve been well trained, sir.”

“Have you?” He steepled his fingers and looked at Dean over them. “Tell me, Hunter, do you have any long-term injuries?”

“No, sir.”

“Any tattoos? Piercings?”

“Only the caste mark, sir.”

“Scars?”

“Uh, well…”

The master must have sensed Dean’s hesitation. “Take off your shirt,” he ordered.

 _Uh oh_ , thought Dean. If this master had a problem with scars he was about to get a whole eyeful of problem.

He stripped. The master was silent as he scrutinised Dean’s body. There was silence from the Warriors, too. Everyone was watching. Dean felt a blush creep into his cheeks. Scars were seen as a sign of a failed Warrior, and he had been collecting scars like a quilt collects patches. Two years of losing fights tended to do that.

“Is that all of them?” the master finally asked. Dean hesitated for only a moment before removing his pants, too. He shivered slightly, though not from the cold. His naked skin prickled with vulnerability. Scars continued down his torso and across his thighs, a testament to his failures. There was a particularly long one across his left knee from a fight last year, when Dean had fallen on a shard of glass that had been hidden in the sand. The master said nothing, and Dean’s heart hammered. What was going on here? Was this omega really looking for a Hunter? And an alpha one at that? He felt himself sweating, and hoped he was far enough away that his alpha stench wouldn’t detract from a possible sale.

“Caretakers to the north! Warriors to the east! Artists to the west!” the speaker blared out again, and for once no one followed it up. There was only silence.

The master twirled his finger, and this time Dean’s hesitation was longer. Finally, he began to turn slowly on the spot. There were short blotchy scars on his back, 27 of them in total, and the hair on his nape stood on end as though trying to cover them up. Unlike his other scars, these weren't testaments of failure. _They're not_ , he reminded himself again, but the blush refused to slow its spread down his neck and shoulders.

It wasn’t unusual for a master to want to see a slave naked before a purchase, but it was the first time Dean had ever been asked to bare himself. He felt goosebumps prickle the backs of his thighs, as though that was the exact spot that the omega master was looking at.

“I have a proposition for you,” the master said quietly, and Dean took that as his cue to turn back around. The master handed a small piece of black cloth through the bars. Dean took it cautiously. It was made of cotton, he thought, but it was softer and finer.

“What do I need pyjamas for?” he asked.

“Those aren’t pyjamas,” the master replied. “That’s your new uniform.”

He recognised it at the same time as the other Warriors.

“It’s the pleasure slave uniform!” someone cackled, and soon the whole arena was in hysterics.

Dean looked from the soft black boxers back up to the master. “Sir,” he said quietly, sadly, “there are pleasure slaves to the north, in the Caretaker arena.”

“I have pleasure slaves,” the master replied. “What I need is someone ferocious. An alpha.”

“I… I don’t think…”

“Consider carefully, Hunter. If you put those on you will be mine.”

The material was thin. Dean stretched it in his hands, but found that it was stronger than it looked. It felt unbelievably soft in his hands. Finer than anything else he had touched. His fingers were dirty, and there was a smear of blood under one nail, and he tried to imagine what something so fine would look like on a body like his.

“I don’t think you want me,” he said sadly, reaching out to return the boxers.

“I assure you, I do.”

And, for the second time in his life, Dean found himself staring directly into the eyes of a master. They were somehow even more blue than before. There was a faint scent of omega arousal.

The blue eyes watched him as he pulled the boxers close, turning them in his hands. 

Dean put them on.

A butterfly could have sneezed in the stillness that followed.

A handler materialised from nowhere, and trembled as she handed the master some forms. “Your name, sir?” she breathed.

“Novak,” he replied, signing his name and formally turning Dean into his possession. “Castiel Novak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a writer in possession of a busy schedule, must be in want of a prompt._  
>  – Jane Austen (probably)
> 
> Filling prompts is my version of procrastination. And what project could possibly be so large that I have undertaken a fic with no foreseeable end and a buttload of character development and aggressive sex to write as procrastination? Well friends, my PhD application has just been accepted. Yes, in only four short years I will be Dr. Bubbles and you can be damn sure that every thesis snag will be accompanied by loud, plotless sex scenes.  
> Four years. RIP my social calendar. 
> 
> (This fic will not take four years though don’t worry)
> 
> (Oh god I hope this fic doesn’t take four years)
> 
> (Someone send help)
> 
> (And icecream)


	2. The Mansion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets a fun introduction to some of the wonderful skills of the pleasure slaves.

_By far the largest caste, the Caretakers are widespread and varied. A Caretaker is by no means limited to a single division, although some will choose only one speciality in their lifetime. Many will, however, have a secondary and even a tertiary division to which they find alignment. It has often been noted that pleasure slaves make particularly clever gardeners, though the cause for this alignment has not yet been investigated._

—Excerpt from _Understanding Castes_ , by C. M. Cooper

 

“HUNTER!”

Dean was vertical before he was awake, already prepared for the Warrior to hit him.

“No need for that, Hunter. Put those down.”

“Huh? Wha—?” he lowered his fists from where they’d automatically moved to cover his face. He was standing in a dimly lit room, and he was naked but for a pair of soft, black…

 _Oh_.

He was in a mansion. _Master Novak’s_ mansion. He had vague memories of being shown into a bedroom as the sun was coming up, and of collapsing onto a mattress—a real mattress!—immediately after.

“I hope that’s not how you plan on greeting Master Novak.”

Dean blinked sluggishly. “Huh?”

“So articulate,” she scoffed. “Now, get moving.” She aimed a kick at a bed next to the one Dean had just vacated. “You too, layabout!”

“Fuck off, Ellen,” someone muttered from under the covers.

Ellen flung open a set of curtains, and blazing sunlight burst into the room.

“Jesus!” Dean swore, covering his face with an arm as his eyes stung and watered. He could tell that Ellen was smirking, and he squinted blearily at her, which was as close to an outraged expression as he could muster.

“Come on, Hunter, your eyes can’t be _that_ sensitive.”

 _Like you’d know_ , Dean snarked back in his mind. Her caste mark was covered by the high collar of her dress, but she was obviously a Caretaker. She was built like one, small and snappy, and there was an apron around her waist.

“Did someone say Hunter?” came a voice from the furthest bed. Dean flinched as a little head peeked over the covers and stared back at him. “Ooh, Benny! Benny, wake up!” The little head turned into a little body and then the little body was running at him full pelt.

Dean braced himself for impact.

But it never came.

He unclenched his eyes, and found that the little body belonged to a little omega, who had stopped in front of him. She was wearing a black nightie which was on the skimpier side of ‘revealing,’ and she had her nose in the air. “Ooooh,” she crooned, eyes closed. “ _Ooooh_ , Master got us a present.” She opened her eyes, simultaneously coy and cunning, and against his better judgement Dean breathed in. “Hello, alpha,” she purred.

The effect was immediate. He dropped to his knees in front of her, hands already reaching for the hem of her nightie. His gums itched, where his alpha teeth longed to push further out, longed to sink into soft flesh. He gulped at the air, breathing her in. If he could just get a taste… get his teeth into the skin of her thigh, get his hand higher. He grabbed at the back of her knees, drew himself forward using her body as an anchor. His lips were on her nightie, his tongue was almost at her skin, just one more inch, almost, almost—

 _WHACK_.

For a moment, Dean saw two of her, and he couldn’t decide which one he wanted most, and then the pain in the back of his head managed to permeate the rest of his addled senses and he fell backwards, covering his mouth and nose as he did. The omega giggled.

“Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve had an alpha!” She sashayed closer, and Dean scuttled backwards, still covering his face with one hand.

“Meg!” Ellen warned, raising her hand again. “Keep your damn pheromones to yourself, girl. That’s the master’s new companion.”

Meg pouted. “What’s the point of being a pleasure slave if the only alpha in the house is off-limits?” she made pitiful eyes at Ellen, who looked as though she had just eaten a lemon.

“Oh, we’re gonna be gettin’ real friendly,” drawled the third voice lazily. Dean assumed the owner was Benny, and a more opposite version of Meg could not exist. Where Meg was all wavy hair and curvy outline, Benny was lithe muscle and intense stare. Their only similarity was their caste mark, and their lips, quirked up at one corner. Benny slithered languidly out of his bed, smiling the half smile. He was wearing a pair of black cotton boxers, identical to Dean’s.

Dean kept his mouth covered and backed towards the open window, aiming for the fresh air. _Fucking pleasure slaves_. He stuck his head out into a warm sunset garden, gulping lungfuls of pheromone-free oxygen. He stayed that way, clearing his mind, and when he took a moment to look out he was stunned by the huge green expanse outside the window. The gardens were gigantic, glowing golden-green as the sun dipped lower. Dean could just make out a dark forest at the edge of his vision, surrounding the garden and grounds.

“I’m enjoying the view, sweetheart, but you can come back in now,” Meg called from behind him. Dean stayed put.

“Move it, Hunter,” Ellen ordered. She grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him back into the room. Thankfully, the omegas had quit their pheromone tricks, or whatever it was, and Dean remained tensely unaffected by their (far gentler) natural omega scent.

“It might surprise you,” Ellen bit out heatedly, “but I’m not your personal alarm clock service.” Dean blushed, but the other two didn’t even blink. It looked like they were used to Ellen’s sparkling personality. She pointed her glare towards Dean. “Master Novak will see you now,” she said curtly.

“Ooooh, can I come too?” Meg’s eyes were bright. Benny took a step closer as well, eyeing Dean off.

“Was I talking to you?” Ellen snapped. She grabbed Dean by the arm and pulled him through the door, ignoring the puppy dog eyes she was leaving behind.

“Ah, so I—” Dean began

“While in this house you will be clean, courteous, and punctual,” Ellen cut in, ignoring Dean’s attempts at conversation. “You have already met your colleagues, and the three of you have slightly more leeway in your waking hours.” She sniffed distastefully, as though unscheduled sleeping patterns were a personal offence. “However, you are expected to be always within five minutes of readiness.” She looked pointedly at the dirt that was still beneath Dean’s nails. “Always.”

“Right, so uh, could you point me to a shower, maybe, or like a—”

“You won’t keep Master Novak waiting,” she said icily, and then she was pulling him up a final set of stairs and gesturing to a set of double doors, waving him to go through.

Dean flinched. “I’m not ready!” he hissed at her.

“You have no one to blame but yourself, Hunter.” At his terrified expression, her face softened by half a degree. “Be yourself, Hunter, and you’ll be fine. Master chose you for a reason.” Then she was knocking on the door, pulling it open, and shoving him through.

He smelled omega.

“Hello, Dean,” came a voice from the darkness.

“M-Master Novak.” Dean tried for a bow, but didn’t know where his arms were supposed to go, and ended up twitching into a half-bend. Master Novak chuckled from the shadows. In the last rays of daylight Dean could make out a giant, circular bed. The sheets were pulled tight across it, and the pillows were arranged in orderly rows. The bed looked untouched, and clean. Dean doubted that Master Novak planned on sleeping in it. The master— _Dean’s_ master—stepped closer. He was shoeless, and the top button of his shirt was undone so Dean could see a small triangle of pale skin beneath.

“Outside of this room I am Master Novak,” he said softly, circling Dean and coming up behind him. “But inside it, when we are alone, you will call me Castiel.”

Dean breathed in, and the smell of omega slick was heady and full. His own scent kicked up a notch in response.

Master Novak—Castiel—breathed in leisurely. “Excellent,” he purred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boring character introductions and it's only chapter two. Lame.  
> The next chapter is literally start to finish whoopee though, so... [ya know...](https://media.giphy.com/media/fCXgKkx6VhGwg/giphy.gif)


	3. The Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three rules, two pairs of boxers, and one very clean bed.

Dean could feel his master’s cheek against the back of his shoulder. _He can feel my scars,_ he thought suddenly, but Master Novak didn’t seem to mind; hadn’t minded at the saleyards, either. He’d seen Dean naked, standing next to Warriors, and had still chosen him. Chosen him for _pleasure_.

He was a Hunter first, but he was also an alpha, and that’s what his master had chosen him for. Ferocity.

“Sir?” he began, and then amended. “Castiel?”

“Mmh?”

“Permission to, ah, to touch you, sir?”

Master Novak hummed, his nose beneath Dean’s ear, where the alpha scent was strongest. “Soon,” he murmured into the soft skin there. “Let’s cover some ground rules first.” His hands splayed across Dean’s abdomen, sending heat southward. The smell of aroused omega grew stronger. Dean clenched his fists and tried to breathe through his mouth, but then he felt like the omega scent was on his tongue and _fuck_ if that didn’t send his imagination into overdrive.

“First,” Master Novak said, somehow ignorant of Dean’s discomfort, “no biting.”

Dean stopped himself from rolling his eyes. _Obviously_ , no biting. He wasn’t some teenage knot-head with no control over his teeth.

“Second,” he continued, “no kissing.”

Dean kept his surprise to himself. His master was calling the shots, after all. No kissing? Fine. He could do that.

His master’s hands spread wider on Dean’s stomach, and a pinkie finger slipped under the elastic of Dean’s boxers.

“Finally,” he murmured, “no knotting.”

Dean flinched. “No knotting?”

Master Novak hummed an affirmative, and his fingers scratched through the hair on Dean’s navel. “I own and operate an important business,” he replied absently, more interested with Dean’s belly button than their conversation. “I don’t have spare time to waste on your knot, Hunter.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, surprised but determined.

“Yes, _Castiel_.”

“Yes, Castiel,” Dean rectified. He felt his master shiver. It must be a thrill, Dean realised, to have a slave call you by your first name.

He spun on the spot, and wrapped his arms around his master’s waist, pulling him closer so that the omega’s nose was buried in the crook of his neck. He spoke low. “Do I have permission to touch you now, _Castiel?_ ”

The smell of omega slick was the only answer he received. He groaned, hauling him closer still, and began tugging at his clothes.

“You undress first,” Castiel demanded.

“I _am_ undressed,” Dean protested, trying to undo the buttons on Castiel’s shirt.

“Almost,” his master replied, before slipping his hands down the back of Dean’s boxers and pushing them over his hips.

Dean hazed out for a moment at the feel of omega hands on his ass, arching into the warm body in front of him, and then there were too many clothes and he gave up on the buttons completely, ripping Castiel’s shirt in half.

“Fuck, YES!” his master swore, and if Dean’s brain had been online he would have stored ‘ripped clothes’ somewhere in his memory for later, but instead he was solely focused on touching as much of the omega’s skin as he could, one hand on a skinny hip, the other delving backward, searching for the source of that irresistible smell. His finger finally slid through blessed slick, his own moan drowned out by the sound of an omega keening.

And then everything else ceased to exist because they were both wearing nothing and everywhere was just skin, skin, skin, and Dean didn’t have to ask for permission anymore so he leaned down and mouthed at one pink nipple, and his hands fit perfectly in the curve of Castiel’s spine, so that’s just where he put them, holding tight as the omega squirmed.

“Fuck me,” Castiel ordered, breathless, but Dean didn’t want to take his tongue off that divine skin, so he walked backwards, dragging the omega with him, licking at the pebbled nub as he did and breathing in the heady smell of arousal. When his knees touched the edge of the bed he sat back, and dragged Castiel on top of him to straddle his thighs. His hands were still at the base of Castiel’s spine so he pulled them flush and ground upwards.

“Ah!” Castiel yelped, and then he was wriggling a hand in between their bodies, and Dean didn’t know whose cock he was aiming for but it didn’t matter, really, because their bodies were close enough that the omega’s fingers brushed them both. Dean jerked upwards at the same time as Castiel growled “hurry up!” and then there were clever little fingers wrapped around them both, tugging fast.

“Christ!” Dean barked, pushing forward, Castiel’s dick against his own and both of them leaking pre-come over the other. He wrapped an arm around the omega’s back, keeping him close, and his other hand returned to its southward investigation. He gasped at the feel of omega slick on his fingers, and mouthed at a bony collarbone as he worked his hand further, searching for the source.

“I want your cock, not your fingers,” Castiel chided. His words were angry but his voice was strung out and breathless, his movements irregular where he held them both. Dean let his fingers continue to idle further through the mess of slick.

“Fuck me!” Castiel ordered again as Dean’s finger touched his leaking hole.

“Let me stretch you,” Dean begged, trying to get the right angle to push a finger into that wet heat.

“You’re not my pleasure slave. Fuck me!”

“Let me… I don’t want to hurt you.”

Castiel glared at him. “You promised me ferocity,” he snarled.

And, well, Dean couldn’t find a fault with that argument.

He shoved Castiel sideways, pushing him onto the mattress where he lay panting, eyes wide and cheeks flushed already. Dean wanted to bury himself in the junction of Castiel’s legs, wanted to put his whole face in that sweet slick mess, but his master was chanting _fuckmefuckmefuckme_ so instead Dean lined himself up, breathed deep, and shoved his way in.

Castiel’s body went rigid, only the back of his shoulders touching the bed as Dean filled him, hard and fast. It had to hurt, Dean had an alpha’s size, but Castiel’s mouth was slack and his pupils were blown so wide that Dean had to wonder when he’d last been fucked. The omega scent was heavy with arousal but there was also shock and intense satisfaction. He breathed deep, and his alpha side purred.

“Good omega,” he panted, fully sheathed.

Castiel lost his unfocused expression and glared at him. “I’m not your omega,” he snapped. “I’m your master.”

Dean stopped himself from snarling. His alpha instincts demanded that he force the omega to submit, but even stark naked with his cock drenched in the evidence of Castiel’s arousal he knew it was suicide to act on the impulse. He withdrew an inch instead, and then kept going, slow and torturous. He had been chosen as a pleasure slave, after all, and he wanted his master to know exactly how much his money had bought him. Every inch of it in hard, agonising detail.

Castiel’s body squeezed and clung, as if fighting to keep Dean inside, while the omega cursed and writhed. With just the tip of his dick still inside he paused, then repositioned his hands. One on his master’s hip, the other under one knee, lifting it up to wrap around his waist as leverage. The angle put Castiel on full display, and Dean bared his canines in alpha pleasure.

“ _Yes,_ ” Castiel moaned, and there was another thing that Dean didn’t have enough brain power to remember, that his master liked to see alpha teeth even though he wasn’t interested in feeling them. He leaned down and growled wordlessly, right into Castiel’s ear, and the omega writhed. “Harder!” he all but screamed. “Harder! Harder! HARDER!”

Dean slammed forward, and any finesse went out the window as he jerked roughly into the pliant body below him. Slick was just _pouring_ out now, making his balls glisten when he pulled back and covering the skin of his thighs when he shoved in close.

He felt his knot begin to form but he clenched his teeth and shoved the snarling alpha inside of him back down. Rule Three was going to be a pain, he could already tell, but he satisfied the alpha hunger by plunging in harder, faster, forcing louder sounds from the omega.

He trailed one hand down to Castiel’s dick, but only got to pump it once before his master was swatting him away. He grinned.

“You gonna come on my dick?” he panted, hips pistoning.

“ _Nnngh!_ ” was the only reply he got. He leaned in close, one arm on either side of his master’s head to keep his balance.

“That’s it, Castiel, Cas,” he growled, letting his teeth nip lightly at one ear. The nickname made them both moan. “Feel how good it is? Feel it, Cas?”

Castiel grabbed at his arm, his neck, tried to haul him in closer, hardly even conscious enough to realise what he was doing. Dean bared his neck, let the omega scent him, watched as a drop of moisture fell from his chest onto Castiel’s, their sweat and stench mingling.

“Alpha,” Cas was moaning, apparently so lost that he’d forgotten his earlier dominance. “Alpha, alpha. Gotta… gonna…”

“Do it,” Dean panted. “Come for me.”

And for once, the master obeyed the slave, painting both their stomachs as he writhed, clenching and cursing.

Dean slowed, pumping leisurely and murmuring “Cas, yes, Cas,” as the omega thrashed, body tight, barely breathing. Dean kept moving, slow and steady, as Castiel came down from his high, muscles relaxing and chest moving as he sucked in big lungfuls of air. It was easier to ignore his own arousal than he had imagined when an omega was trembling and spent beneath him. He slipped out from the lax body and knelt, licking at his master’s thighs, cleaning him and savouring the taste of slick on his tongue. He palmed himself absently, and it was the easiest thing in the world to come over his own fingers, with slick coating his lips and omega thighs bracketing his face.

“So good, Cas,” he murmured, tongue working. “So good for me.”

But apparently his master was done with him, because he shoved Dean aside with one knee.

“Send Meg in,” he said calmly, ignoring the mess on his belly and thighs.

The alpha in his gut had been dozing contentedly in post-orgasmic bliss, but it raised its head now.

“S-sir, let me, let me...” Semen was drying on the omega’s stomach, and the alpha inside him refused to leave until it was dealt with.

“Send Meg in,” Castiel repeated, blissful expression evaporating into icy calm.

“Let me clean you, sir, Castiel.”

“I have pleasure slaves for that,” Castiel said coldly, and Dean wanted to say _I’m your pleasure slave too, remember_ , but his master made a flicking motion with his wrist, a universal dismissal, and Dean forced his alpha side into submission as he backed to the door.

He had one last look at his master, spread out on the bed, covered in sweat and semen and slick, and then he left, his inner alpha howling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PhD update: on my first week of field work I got bitten by a spider, dropped my phone into snowmelt and fell face first into a lake full of eels. [What a start.](https://media.tenor.co/images/db4624833077aac20cae37c667ceab6a/raw)
> 
> P.S. did anyone else notice that Dean left without his boxers? Because I certainly did *evil cackle*


	4. The Mansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every single person who has hit the kudos, comment or subscribe button. I am slowly becoming more dependent on your feedback than on oxygen.

_Remember, young master, that you are also human._

—Excerpt from _Understanding Castes,_ by C. M. Cooper

 

His life re-arranged itself around Master Novak’s schedule. The nights that he was called for were always the same. Dean had no idea what he did for a job but Master Novak—always _Castiel_ when they were alone—would be wound up, tight and annoyed until Dean got inside him, and then he would melt, moaning and shaking as Dean muttered obscenities in his ear, calling him gorgeous, calling him by that nickname, _Cas_ , that sent both of them into a frenzy.

And then Cas would come, and Dean would leave him just like that, sweaty and filthy, and Meg or Benny would sneak in after him.

Once, he took his master against a wall, fucking him into the plaster as hard as he could, going even faster when Castiel demanded _more._ There were bruises on his master’s back, after that; faint red marks that made him whine, deep in his throat, but also made him shiver in pleasure, because there was no way even Meg could clean those off, and Cas would be feeling them for _days_ , remembering the alpha that had given them to him.

But Castiel had pushed him away before he could look at them closely, before he could nose at them and make sure the omega was okay. The next time he had been called for was days later, and the bruises were gone, replaced by a little hickey on one hip, and finger marks in the shape of Benny’s hand.

Dean growled when he saw them, and Castiel grinned. “Jealous, Hunter?” he asked, eyebrow raised. And then Dean was on him.

“Always finding new ways to rile me up,” he grit into Castiel’s ear as he pulled clothing apart to get at the flesh beneath.

“I like it when you’re angry,” the omega agreed, and Dean set out to show him just what his anger could do, ignoring the part of him that ached.

 _I could be so much more than just angry,_ he thought, while simultaneously growling a possessive threat into the omega’s ear.

But he was never asked to stay.

“Is it because I’m an alpha?” he huffed at Benny one night, after Meg had replaced him in the master’s bedroom.

“Nah, chief," Benny drawled, "you just ain’t a Caretaker, tha’s all.” He sounded bored. They’d had this argument before.

“But I’m a pleasure slave! Same as you!” He kicked at a bed frame, and the pain fuelled his rage.

“Hunter’s don’ have no pleasure division, chief.”

“Well, they should. I wear the uniform too!” He knew he sounded childish, but he couldn’t help it. His master’s scent was still under his nails and he had just left him there, filthy and spent, for some _omega_ to take care of.

“You don’ even like our uniform,” Benny pointed out. “You’d be more comfortable with the Warriors, out guardin’ the grounds. Far away from my pretty face, ain’t that right?”

“For once, Benny, this has nothing to do with your face.”

“That sounds like jealousy talking,” Benny crooned, sliding hands down his lithe form. He looked at Dean sideways, playing with the edge of his boxers, and Dean couldn’t help but notice that his skin was untouched. Scar-free.

Dean growled at him, and Benny’s eyelids dropped. He pinched his nose before the smell of aroused omega could distract him. “Cut it out,” he hissed.

“Don’ blame me, chief. You’re the one gettin’ feisty.”

Dean stalked out of the room to have a long, cold shower.

Under the freezing spray he tried to picture anything other than Castiel in bed with someone else, but he kept seeing the little mouth-shaped mark on his master’s skin, and the cunning smirk Meg would have tomorrow. He scrubbed harder at his skin, and his scars winked at him, white and permanent.

He slept fitfully, and dreamt of another master, in a time before the scars.

“Liar,” snarled the other master in his dream. “Traitor. Deceiver.” Dean heard the sound of ripping flesh, and he knew it was his own, but he also knew it was elsewhere, that it wasn’t real.

“Scum. Filth. Wretched liar.” That fleshy sound again, wet and bloody, and a distant scream to join it.

“Wake up,” he told himself, and he was in a memory where the exact opposite had happened, where he’d begged to go to sleep, begged to let it end. But he was somewhere else as well, in between clean sheets on a real mattress, and when he opened his eyes there was sunlight, not blood, and the smell of morning was an antidote.

“No one’s going to get any sleep if you insist on smelling like distressed alpha,” Ellen hissed from the doorway, where she’d obviously just arrived. She was probably just sticky-beaking, and Dean flipped her the bird before rolling back into the pillow.

 _Castiel isn’t like the other master_ , he thought to himself. He snuggled further into the blankets even though he knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep. _Castiel is good. He treats me well. Treats us all well._

And then the answer was obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneaking sex into a character development chapter like no one’s business.


	5. The Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My transition into a feedback-reliant vampire is going swimmingly, thanks to you guys.

He spent the day in the indoor training room, tackling weights with a determination he hadn’t felt in a long time. He’d put on a little bit of muscle since the saleyards, but he was still smaller than Benny, and he imagined what he would look like if he was bigger. How he’d be able to pick Castiel up, or hold him down; keep him safe and warm and loved. Dean wanted to show him what it meant to be held. Wanted to show him that affection wasn’t a vulnerability that could be dismissed with a flick of fingers at night.

He pictured Castiel asleep beside him. He pictured himself curled around the gentle geography of his master’s back, scenting his neck. He could almost _feel_ his knot buried deep inside. He pictured the way Castiel would wake, long and languid and already hard from the smell of alpha in his bed.

And yeah, maybe it was an unrealistic dream, but he could at least show his master that he was capable of it. That he could give all that and still be aggressive and angry when it was needed, could take care of him in whatever way Castiel required.

But first he would have to be invited when Castiel wasn’t pent up and anxious.

That night, Benny was called to the master’s bedroom.

Dean followed.

Benny looked back at him. “Don’ be doin’ this, brother,” he said, but he could see the determination in Dean’s eyes, and didn’t push it.

Benny didn’t knock at the double doors, just opened them a fraction and slipped inside. Dean took a steadying breath, and followed.

Benny had discarded his uniform already, and Dean could immediately see the difference between them, how Benny looked like he was _meant_ to be naked. How bare skin suited him more than clothes ever could.

Castiel was sitting at a desk in the corner, brow furrowed over some papers, but he looked up when Benny coughed, and noticed the alpha behind him. He stood slowly.

“Dean?”

Dean bowed, but remained silent. Castiel looked at Benny.

“Don’ look at me, sir. I didn’ invite him.”

For a moment Dean thought he would be dismissed, but then Castiel raised a single eyebrow and crooked one finger, and they both came closer. Benny crawled under the desk and reached up for the zip of his master’s fly, as though he’d done it a hundred times before.

 _Maybe he has,_ Dean realised. But it was too late for second guessing, so when Castiel’s pants came loose Dean removed his own boxers and sat on the desk chair, pulling his master down onto the edge of his knees. Castiel went easily, relaxing back against him, and even that, even the feel of relaxed muscles against his own was more than Dean could have hoped for. He put his nose behind Castiel’s ear, breathed deep, and he was used to the omega scent being tinged with frustration and impatience so he couldn’t help the groan of approval when he smelled only pleasure and a drowsy sort of expectation.

He let Benny set the pace from his position on the floor, watched as Castiel came apart under Benny’s eager hands and mouth. He used his own fingers, too, buried in between them both to probe into his master’s slick hole.

“Finally,” he murmured, and it was like some kind of filthy prayer, to have his fingers in that wet heat, satisfying the aching in his belly to hold and love and cherish. Castiel was boneless between them. Not strung out and begging like Dean was used to. Calmer. Like an ocean at moonrise when the tides are lapping at a beach. The smell of satisfaction was deeper, too. Dean basked in it.

He made Castiel ready, then looked down at Benny from over his master’s shoulder, nodding once. He lifted Castiel up slightly, and slotted himself inside like some namelessly familiar jigsaw piece.

Castiel hardly moved, except perhaps to sigh gently as Dean filled him, and then it was just languid pressure, the rolling of hips, tiny wet noises from between Castiel’s legs, and the overwhelming smell of two content omegas.

The urge to knot was stronger than ever, but Dean mentally wrestled the growling alpha inside him into submission. He hadn’t broken any rules by following Benny here, and he wasn’t about to start now. He wanted to provide pleasure and he wanted to be allowed to do it again, later. He wanted to be invited back into this part of his master’s life. Wanted Castiel just like this, again and again.

It was different, too. Castiel didn’t scream as he came. No one swore. He tightened around Dean and his forehead furrowed and then Benny was humming in appreciation as he licked the evidence from his lips and fingers. Some of it passed undetected, slipping between Castiel’s parted thighs and onto Dean’s, where it mixed with the slick and sweat. Dean prepared to pull out, but Benny put hands on his master’s thighs, pushing them back together, and Dean tried to stifle his groan as he watched Castiel get hard again. He had never been allowed this before… never been allowed to give pleasure more than once. He wondered how many times they would go. He wanted to prove he could take it. He would spend the whole night proving it if he could.

After, when Castiel was loose and spent, Dean tried to follow the omegas into the shower, but Benny shooed him away, and pushed him back when he tried to shoulder past. Clearly, this was Caretaker territory. Dean raised his hands in deference to show he was okay but he wasn’t, really, because he had thought things would be different, now. He thought the holding and scenting would extend to the bathroom, but Castiel made no move to call him back as he stepped away.

In the weeks that followed he found that he still wasn’t allowed to clean and cherish, but sometimes he was invited to join Meg or Benny, and those nights were slower, lazy and unhurried, a contrast to the frenzied wave that he rode when it was only himself and his master. He forced himself to accept the change as a blessing, a tiny step, and tried not to nurture the idea that maybe this was all he would ever be allowed.

There would be time for more later, he told himself, and he ignored the part of his brain that sounded like a ticking clock.


	6. The Mansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by [GertieCraign](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GertieCraign). GC is the reason this chapter is here in any readable format. My eternal gratitude.

_Traditionally, Hunters followed the path assigned by their name; hunting. However in modern decades, with the development of farming technologies and the increase of abattoirs, the traditional role of the Hunter has become somewhat obsolete. Between 1870 and 1930 there was an increased push to reduce reproduction in Hunter females, but fortunately smarter heads prevailed and this caste is still with us today._

—Excerpt from _Understanding Castes,_ by C. M. Cooper

 

“Master Novak is going to New York,” Meg said casually, as though going to New York was something that masters did in between sips of coffee. A regular occurrence. Dean looked sideways at Benny, who was usually easier to read than Meg, but Benny’s expression was shuttered, half hidden behind a book. It was approaching evening, and they were all lazing in the shared bedroom, waiting to be called to the master's room. Meg was filing her nails, deliberately not looking at either of them.

“When?” Dean asked, because Meg obviously wanted him to.

“Oh, probably tomorrow.” She examined a nail closely.

Dean waited, but when she didn’t elaborate he sighed. “And?”

“Oh, nothing else. Just interesting, is all.”

Dean rolled his eyes and flopped back on the bed. He could see Meg eyeing him from under her lashes, but he ignored her. If she wanted to be flippant then she could do it without his help.

She must have realised that Dean wasn’t going to play ball. “I wonder who he’ll take with him,” she said slyly.

Dean sat back up. “Does he… does he usually take someone with him?”

But Meg was too busy filing her nails, and pretended not to hear him.

“Master always takes guards when he goes someplace,” Benny filled in without looking up, and Meg glared at him. “But he’ll be takin’ one of us too, chief.”

“Who?”

“Well, that’s the mystery right there, ain’t it.” He flipped a page.

Meg slithered off her perch on the windowsill and crawled onto Dean’s bed. “Do you think he’ll take you, little Hunter?” She stretched out on his right side and shuffled in close. Dean turned his face away, but didn’t move. Meg liked to tease, but she usually left him alone if he just ignored her, and she hadn’t used her pheromones since the first day.

“Master’ll take whoever he wants to take,” Benny said, trying to close the conversation.

Meg leaned up to tickle Dean’s ear with her breath. “I hope he takes me,” she purred. “I hope we’re gone for _weeks,_ just the two of us. No little alpha to get in the way.” She stroked a finger through the thin trail of hair that ran down from his belly button. She and Benny were both hairless from the eyebrow down, and Dean’s hair fascinated her. She had tried to make him wax his legs in the first week, just to see what would happen.

Dean carefully extricated her fingers and put them back at her side, but she giggled and caught his hand as he pulled away, trying to lick his palm. Dean sat up and moved to Benny’s bed, who’s boundaries Meg had slightly more respect for.

“Meg!” Ellen’s voice called from down the hallway. Meg grinned at them. “Guess I’m the winner, huh. See you in a few weeks, boys.” She flicked her fingers as she walked out the door, imitating Castiel’s dismissive gesture.

Benny gave her the finger, and didn’t look up from his book.

Dean wondered if he would ever get used to being only a fraction of a group. Only partially needed. He sighed.

He wasn’t tired enough to sleep yet, and he didn’t want to lie awake while thinking of Meg’s filed nails on Castiel’s skin.

“Whatchya reading?”

Benny lifted the book so Dean could read the title. Something about the caste system.

“Why do you want to learn about a system you’re already a part of?” he poked.

“It’s interestin’,” Benny grunted.

“What does it say about Hunters?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

Dean went to sit next to him, and Benny sighed dramatically as he made room. Dean flipped to the Hunter section.

_Though Hunters are no longer needed for their traditional skills, they make excellent drivers due to their infallible sense of direction, and many can be found behind the wheel of public transport vehicles or even…_

Dean stopped reading.

“Told ya,” Benny said, returning to his own page with an exaggerated world-weariness.

Dean went back to the bed he slept in, and flipped the pillow to hide the residual smell of Meg’s presence. _They make excellent drivers… Hah!_ He rolled over and considered going to the training room to wear himself out.

“Dean!” Ellen’s voice called from down the hallway, interrupting his thoughts. Bobby didn't look at him as he sat back up.

He hurried to the master’s bedroom, and almost ran into Meg as she walked past. She was deliberately not looking at him.

“Enjoy New York,” she said viciously.

“You’re not going?” he said, surprised, but it was the wrong thing to ask. She almost snarled. “Hey,” he said, holding his hands palm-out, “he would take you if he could, okay. Everyone knows you’re the favourite.” She sniffed, and didn’t argue, He remembered Benny’s book. “If... if master _does_ take me, it's probably just to be a driver, you know?”

She sniffed again and then nodded, conceding. "Probably."

Dean tried for a smile, but it was a step too far, and Meg bared her teeth at him, but she was smiling as she stalked away.

Castiel’s room was dimly lit, as always.

“Master Novak.” Dean bowed.

“I suppose Meg has already told you of my trip.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that you will be accompanying me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I apologise for telling her first, but she is easily… well—”

“Frustrated?” Dean supplied.

Castiel gave a small smile. “I’ll be meeting with an international syndicate in New York.” His look hardened slightly. “They will supply Warriors on site, but I have been… _permitted_ … one pleasure slave.”

The way he said ‘permitted’ made Dean twitch, because his alpha side didn’t like the idea of someone else telling his master what he could and couldn’t do. But then the rest of Castiel’s remarks filtered through, and Dean glanced up.

“You… won’t have any guards.”

Castiel met his gaze. “I will have you,” he said, and Dean still wasn’t used to looking a master directly in the eye, so the words carried an extra weight. He was going to be the only one from his master’s household. Castiel wouldn’t even have his own Warriors.

“Are you… expecting danger, sir?”

“Of course not, I will have the syndicate’s Warriors to protect me. There is nothing to worry about.”

Dean looked up at his master, and the alpha inside him didn’t believe it for a second.

Out loud, however, he only asked what the last few months had taught him to ask. “Is there something I can do to thank you, sir, for taking me with you?”

Castiel grinned, all sly teeth, and Dean spent the next hour pushing bruises into as much skin as he thought he could get away with. Part of him was doing it to give his master pleasure, but the other half wanted to mark and claim. His master was leaving the safety of his home and grounds, and the alpha inside him wanted to ward off the nameless threat.

_This omega is protected._

His hands covered as much skin as they could. Castiel’s angled hips. The sensitive flesh between each finger. The bones of his shoulders and back. Dean rocked forward.

“Cas, god. So tight.”

They were on the bed. Castiel was kneeling, shoulders low, and Dean was holding his waist as he pushed in. There wasn’t much slick and Castiel was tense, but Dean was trying to alleviate the smell of apprehension the only way he knew how. He changed positions, a new angle, and then they were sitting, Castiel on his lap. Dean pushed up but couldn’t go fast enough, couldn’t go hard enough to make his master smell of something other than anxiety.

They moved again, and this time he was lying on the bed with his master above him. Castiel’s hands were on either side of Dean’s head, not moving, and Dean grabbed him by the waist. He planted his feet firmly in the mattress and lifted his hips, fucking up into the tight heat above him. He wanted his master to relax, to find pleasure, but Castiel couldn’t let himself go, so Dean used the tension, made Castiel hold his own weight while he shoved upward. It worked, kind of. Slick leaked out to cover his balls and thighs, and Castiel let out a rough moan, low and wild.

“Yeah, Cas. Give it up for me.”

He loved this position. Castiel was close enough that they shared the same breath, and Dean could watch as his master’s face contorted in pleasure. The little fissure between his eyebrows growing stronger the closer he came. Dean wanted to put his lips on that exact spot, wanted to feel it move beneath his tongue as Castiel reached climax.

But instead he just growled _Cas,_ and caught his master when his arms gave out, letting the sticky release rub between them as Castiel shook through the tremors that followed. He pulled out, and his dick rubbed between Castiel’s slick cheeks once, twice, before he came as well, over his own thighs and his master’s ass.

He tried to scent Castiel, to banish the apprehension, but all he could smell was slick and semen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 and I finally caught up to the plot I’ve planned in this fic. It’s ah, [gonna be a long one, guys.](https://68.media.tumblr.com/b92d72c43e9410c42b41db17c5c98ee6/tumblr_mk1xx1XUjH1qbbne5o1_250.gif)


	7. New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild plot appears!

_Almost every household will have at least one Artist. They are excellent additional sources of income, and can provide lasting entertainment if a master chooses wisely. Remember to nurture the talent of your Artist, be it a painter, dancer, musician… and you will reap the benefits many times over._

—Excerpt from _Understanding Castes,_ by C. M. Cooper

 

“By the window,” Castiel directed, and the beta dropped the suitcase as indicated. Dean was standing by the door, hands behind his back and stance wide, waiting to be useful. The two guards took up positions near him, and Dean tried not to bristle at their proximity. He took a small step forward, subtly putting himself between them and his master.

“You’re dismissed,” Castiel flicked his fingers at the guards, but they hesitated.

“Sir, our orders were to stay with you at all times.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I think I’m quite safe in my own room, Warrior.”

Still they hesitated.

“Did your master really tell you to stay with me while I make use of my pleasure slave?”

They flinched and glanced sideways at Dean, who was definitely not looking at the room’s single bed. “No, sir,” the beta said. Castiel made the flicking motion again, and they ducked their heads and exited. Dean saw them take positions outside the hotel room before the door swung shut behind them. Castiel sighed, relieved. The two Warriors had dogged their steps all the way from the airport, behaving more like hawks than guards.

Dean dropped his pose and padded to the suitcase, following a hunch.

“No need to unpack. We’re not in New York for long.”

“No, sir,” Dean agreed, but he unzipped the bag anyway, breathing deep. Castiel went into the bathroom and Dean followed him in, holding a pair of socks. “Sir,” he began cautiously. “You said you didn’t expect any danger here.”

Castiel looked at him sideways as he washed his hands. “I don’t,” he said at last.

Dean held up the socks. “Your bag has been searched, sir.”

Castiel took the socks and sniffed at them delicately. “I don’t smell anything,” he said carefully.

“I’m a Hunter, sir. I have a better sense of smell than anyone. Four different people have gone through your luggage.”

“Lucky there’s nothing in there to find, then,” Castiel dismissed, but Dean caught the edge of unease in his voice. He waited for his master to elaborate, but Castiel was not forthcoming.

He bit his tongue to stop himself asking something out of line. Something like _what are we doing here?_ or _what do you do for a job, sir?_

Instead, Castiel returned to the main room, visibly shaking himself. “I have an hour before my first appointment,” he said out loud, examining his watch.

“The guards think you’re ‘making use’ of me,” Dean said pointedly, touching the elastic of his boxers.

“Not now,” Castiel said absently, “I don’t want to smell of alpha.”

Dean had a pretty strong objection to that but he merely took up his pose by the door again.

\----------------------

An hour passed and Dean was beginning to think he didn’t like New York much. It was like being back at the saleyards. Everyone _stared._ It was impossible to feel at ease.

The current spectator was an alpha master who was looking at Dean with an icy expression. “I thought you were told not to bring a guard,” she said to Castiel, her voice deceptively calm.

“Dean is my pleasure slave,” Castiel replied, equally bland.

“Hmm,” she tsked, then one corner of her mouth lifted. “We heard that there was a… disturbance on the flight. An alpha went crazy.”

“Dean is used to being by my side,” Castiel said, and it sounded like an agreement.

“I see,” she smirked. Dean didn’t ask her how she would have liked being trapped in a flying flammable death-tube, but it was a close call. He hadn’t even gone _crazy,_ just growled at a few flight attendants, but apparently that was enough to categorise him as a non-threat, because she stopped glaring at him.

Dean tried not to take it personally. He imagined how she would look with her teeth punched in instead, and that was a surprisingly good sedative.

Castiel and the alpha began a heated debate which involved a lot of numbers. Money being swapped for units, or something like that. He zoned out. Master business wasn’t slave business, so he didn’t try to follow the conversation, just relaxed into the impassive at-ease stance. He was kind of used to the pose, after all. He had been to meetings like this before, with his other master…

He switched off that line of thinking before his scent could go sour, and forced himself to stare expressionlessly at an imagined horizon. Castiel wasn’t like that. This was just a boring meeting. Numbers and figures and signed forms.

And then  _more_ numbers and figures and signed forms.

One after the other after the other…

It was the same thing at the next appointment, and the next, and for the rest of the day as his master met with the rest of the syndicate. Castiel would take a seat at the café or restaurant or office, and another master would join him and pull paper out of a bag somewhere. Dean would sit at his master’s feet, or stand at his side if indicated, and zone out as numbers were exchanged and argued.

It wasn’t until the sun was setting that something caught Dean’s attention.

“I want them in good condition,” Castiel was saying, but the redheaded master he was talking to was shaking his head.

“You’ll get them as they come,” he said nonchalantly, and Dean tensed minutely at Castiel’s feet.

The redhead was a beta, didn’t smell like much, and Dean mistrusted him instantly. He was examining Castiel from under half-closed eyes with an almost bored demeanour.

“I’ll get them in the condition I’m paying for,” Castiel argued, and his tone was light but his fingers were tense where they held a rich-ink pen.

“Most masters don’t care about their condition,” the redhead said, calculating.

“Well I want them well fed. And no recent injuries. I don’t want my assets any more damaged than necessary.”

The redhead tilted his head almost imperceptibly towards Dean’s scarred body. “Seems like the condition isn’t all that important to you,” he said, his voice quiet and cold.

With a barely hidden shudder, Dean realised that _asset_ meant _slave_.

“Nevertheless,” Castiel was continuing, “I will deduct another unit for every recent injury I find.”

There was a full five seconds of silence.

“Very well,” the redhead finally agreed. “You’ll receive details of the location in three days.”

They both signed some forms, but didn’t shake hands. Dean stared outward without looking at either of them, trying to organise his thoughts.

 _Master business isn’t slave business,_ he reminded himself. His scars itched, as though they were remembering the last time he had presumed otherwise. _Master business isn’t slave business. Master business isn’t slave business._ But he kept hearing units and figures in his head. Slaves turned into numbers.

Buying outside of saleyards wasn’t monitored, exactly, but this many… an _army_ of slaves. If Castiel was arrested then Dean would be masterless again.

_Master business isn’t slave business._

He almost forgot to bow to the redhead when Castiel indicated it was time to leave.

Dean was tense and distracted when they returned to the hotel, but Castiel’s restlessness exceeded his own, and even miles away from home Dean knew what his job was. It was why he had been chosen as a companion instead of one of the omegas. Castiel had known he would be tense, and had planned in advance to have Dean on call.

For once, Dean had no problem being the aggressive alpha that his master wanted. He didn’t even wait for Castiel to fully undress before he was shoving him up against the closed door. He briefly wondered if the guards could hear him growling from their post outside the room, but found he didn’t really care, and growled louder, rolling against his master’s back. Castiel couldn’t open his legs wide enough, because his pants were tangled around his ankles, but Dean didn’t want to wait so he shoved in, the way he knew his master liked, and Castiel’s high-throated whines eclipsed his own.

They went hard, just like that. Castiel still dressed and Dean angry and possessive and confused, repeating “ _Cas_ ” like a mantra to stop himself from saying “ _Master business isn’t slave business,_ ” because that’s what his head was full of.

They used each other until their heartbeats slowed, and Castiel painted the door with come that some unfortunate Caretaker would find the next day, and Dean didn’t try to follow him into the bathroom, even though his master left the door open as he showered.

Later, showering by himself, he jacked himself fierce and fast, and then watched as the evidence of his own lonely pleasure spun down the drain in watery circles.

_Master business isn’t slave business._

Someone had brought a pull-out bed, which was waiting at the foot of the master bed. Dean ached to see it, but there was another ache in his belly now, an ache that felt like lists of numbers and the sound of a rich-ink pen scrawling a signature. Dean bundled himself onto the thin mattress and even though he could hear Castiel’s breathing less than ten feet away, his master had never felt so distant before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PhD update: I’ll be out in the field for a week so unless there is reception out there you might not get an update for a bit but STAY CALM I’M PRETTY SURE DEAN ISN’T ABOUT TO DO ANYTHING DUMB, RIGHT?


	8. The Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think master business is about to become slave business, guys.

He was an excellent navigator and drove confidently, arriving at Master’s destination without a hiccup. He got out quickly to open the rear door, and fell into step as they approached the building.

He stood behind his Master’s chair, easily filtering out their conversation, senses alert for tiny movements and infinitesimal changes in scents and sounds… anything that posed a potential threat. He was also an excellent timekeeper, ready to alert his master when an hour had passed with a tap on one shoulder.

He had never spoken to Master. Not directly. But he knew that Master approved of him. Why else would he choose Dean to accompany him to every meeting in town?

Master trusted him. He was useful.

A part of him knew that it was a dream, that the contentment couldn’t last. That one day he would not please his master and he would pay a price for it, but for now he basked in the certainty of being useful. He wanted to stay here forever.

But the dream moved as dreams do, and suddenly he was patrolling the grounds.

“Please sir, do you have some water?”

Dean was so busy searching the nearby shrubs that he almost missed the little arm that was poking through a gap in the downstairs window. He made his way over, and the arm retracted inside, replaced by a pale face.

It was just a little girl. An Artist, he thought, though only a little of her caste mark was visible. He smiled at her. “Hey sweetheart, what are you doing inside on a nice day like this?”

The girl blinked at him, eyes wide. “Please, sir. Some water?”

“I’m not a sir,” he chuckled, but he grabbed for his water anyway. When he turned back around the girl was gone, and his master was there instead. His eyes were huge, bulging in rage. There was spittle flying from his mouth.

“Traitor,” he was choking, so furious that he could barely breathe.

“The girl,” Dean said, and he tried to step back but his feet wouldn’t move and he fell, landing hard. His master loomed over him like a thundercloud, impossibly large, and his eyes were black but they were also blue, and he smelled like violence but also like home, and then he wasn’t looking up, but down, at a dirty table and his own blood pooling and he could still feel the shadow, the imminent rainstorm above him, and there was a crack like lightning but it wasn’t, it wasn’t, it was his master, too furious for words, a tempest of violent rage battering a permanent reminder of his betrayal into the skin of his back.

Dean passed out.

But he also woke up.

And both the sleeping and the waking were simultaneously true, and he wasn’t reaching for either, didn’t want the red patterns of his own blood on the floor. Didn’t want his master shaking him awake, saying his name in desperate breaths.

“No,” Dean said, but he wasn’t sure which master he was talking to. One of them spilling rage like rain, the other spilling worry and fear. “No,” he told them both.

He opened his eyes.

“Dean!” Castiel was shaking him, hard. There was no light outside. It was still night. “Dean!”

“Castiel.” The name came out sad, but his master sagged in relief.

“You were having a nightmare,” Castiel told him, and it must have been bad, because there was distressed omega in the air. Heavy. For once, the urge to hold and protect didn’t come.

“Yes,” Dean agreed instead.

Castiel must have noticed that he was in a slave’s bed, because he stood abruptly. “Please take precautions next time,” he said, and his cold mask was back in place. “A cup of tea before bed, perhaps.”

When Dean raised his head their eyes met, and it distantly occurred to him that this kept happening, that Castiel was the only master who looked a slave in the eye.

“Sir,” he said, and his voice came from across an ocean. He turned away, wishing the next part didn’t have to happen, but when he looked back the blue eyes were still fixed on him. “Sir, when we get back home I… I want to go back to the saleyards.”

Castiel stared blankly at him, and for a moment Dean thought he was in shock.

“You wish to return to the saleyards…”

It wasn’t a question, but Dean nodded anyway.

“I was under the impression that you found my home… agreeable.”

Dean nodded again.

“But you still wish to go?”

“Any slave has the right to return to the nearest saleyard if they choose,” Dean said quietly.

“Article 4.01,” Castiel said, and he still sounded shocked, but maybe also impressed. “Many slaves aren’t aware of their rights.”

“Used to be that everyone knew.” He was still twisted in his blankets, and he pulled himself free. “But people will forget anything if they don’t have an opportunity to remember.”

“Can I ask why?”

Dean stood up, and his legs were shaky but he made it to the bathroom and poured himself a glass of water. When he came back into the room Castiel was still waiting for an answer. He considered lying. The glass was cool in his hand, and his breath made a mist on the rim as he drank. The water was fine like silk. It tasted different to the water at home. And different again to the water from the saleyards. It sat like a dead weight in Dean’s belly.

“Master business isn’t slave business,” he murmured, but if that was true then he wouldn’t be standing in a dimly lit room, holding a glass that cost more than he did, telling his master that he wanted to leave. “Your reasons are your own,” he said at last, and his voice was still quiet but louder than he could have hoped. “But you’re buying slaves sir, and I’m not an idiot.” Castiel tried to cut in, but Dean kept talking. “I can’t stay, sir. Not for this. I can’t stand by if you’re breaking the law. I won’t do it.” He thought his voice might have cracked at the end, but when he looked up his gaze didn’t waver. This was the right thing. The numbers he had heard yesterday… the casual way they had been thrown back and forth, as though the lives that were attached to them meant nothing. Saleyards weren’t _perfect_ but there was a reason they existed; to stop slave laundering like this. “I’ve been there before,” Dean said, and this time his voice was a whisper. “I won’t do it. Not again.” He breathed in, but his heart rate was steady. “Even the saleyards would be better.”

Castiel didn’t move. Neither did Dean. They stared at each other for a full minute, and if Dean had expected rage or embarrassment he got neither. His master looked… calculating.

Finally, he reached some sort of decision.

“You say you will return to the saleyards once we are home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you will remain under my ownership until then.”

“Of course, sir.”

Castiel nodded. “Good. I find that I am… somewhat restless after my impromptu awakening. I feel the need to relax.” He gestured to the bathroom, and Dean realised what he was asking for.

It would be so much harder, he knew. Every sound could be the last one. The way Castiel’s waist fit in his hands, the exact taste of him, the furrow between his eyes when he came. He almost refused. But he was a slave, at least for a few more days, so he followed his master into the bathroom, stripping as he went. The weight in his belly pressed his stomach into knots.

Castiel turned the shower on, took off his robe, and stepped into the spray. Dean followed, and his hands found the curve of Castiel’s spine, and he could feel his heart breaking because this was where his hands belonged, he knew it, but he also knew that soon he would have to let go. He pressed his master back, almost mechanically, and lifted him onto the short ledge on the other side, tipping the little bottles of shampoo off to make room.

He had to stroke himself to get hard, but Castiel’s hand stopped him.

His master leaned in close, and Dean thought he was aiming for his skin, to breathe him in, but he was actually aiming for Dean’s ear, because when Dean bared his neck his master leaned up further and began whispering.

“I’m a plant, Dean. I’m here to find slave rings. There’s someone here… someone with thousands of unregistered slaves. I’m here to find them.” Then he wrapped his legs around Dean’s waist and yelled, “Fuck yes, Hunter!”

Dean blinked.

And blinked again.

Castiel was moaning filth, though neither of them was hard. The weight in Dean’s belly trembled, but didn’t budge

“Do you promise?” he whispered.

Castiel nodded, and his eyes were sincere, even though he was swearing at Dean to “Do it! Do it harder!”

 _Someone is listening,_ Dean realised, because Castiel had turned the shower on to drown out their conversation, and was making noises like he had last night. So Dean growled, trying to sound like he usually did. Alpha. Castiel threw back his head and groaned, long and low, and it was realistic enough that Dean felt himself twitch, but then his master turned off the shower and grabbed a towel.

“Thank you, Hunter,” he said dismissively.

Dean followed him back into the room.

 _A plant,_ he thought. The weight in his belly began to move, and soon it was lodged in the base of his throat. He wouldn’t have to go back to the saleyards.

“Try to sleep until morning at least, please,” Castiel said, and the words were cold but his eyes were warm where they met Dean’s.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said quietly. “I’ll sleep til morning.”

Long story short, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm a plant, Dean."
> 
> PhD trip update: I survived. And it was awesome coming back to all your comments n kudos when I got back thank yoooou!


	9. Central Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not deserve this fandom I swear. You guys do not understand what your feedback does to me I am drowning in goodness. I wanna hug you all individually, thanks for sticking by this weird little AU <3

The rest of the weekend followed the same format as the first day, but this time Dean made a point of listening in. He was focused and attentive at meetings, instead of dazed and drifting. He knelt at Castiel’s feet and absorbed everything, every word.

He was a Hunter, after all, and if his master was hunting something, then it was both Dean’s obligation and his pleasure to help.

Castiel had already made a name for himself. Apparently he had been buying up slaves for a while, looking for a bigger group. He kept asking for families, siblings, and Dean guessed that the guy he was after specialised in breeding slaves. The thought turned his gut, but he remained calmly neutral as Castiel argued numbers.

Finally, a cocky master gave the game away. He was young, showing off, smirking as he said, “You know I think I’ve got a friend who can organise something for you.”

Castiel slid something across the table which disappeared into one of the kid’s pockets. “Make it happen,” he said, quiet and calm.

The air outside was warm and bright, and Dean walked slowly to get to the car, enjoying the autumn sun as they left the building. He turned to see Castiel watching him with an unreadable expression that quickly vanished.

“I think it’s time for a walk,” he said quietly.

Dean blushed. “What about your next meeting, sir?”

“I think,” said Castiel, “that my next client will be coming to me.”

Castiel dismissed the guards and they went to Central Park alone. Dean tried not to make his enjoyment obvious, but everything was beautiful. The very air was alive, and everyone seemed to be outside enjoying the last warmth of the year. Some of the trees had already started turning yellow.

Dean walked two paces behind his master, but they were both looking upward and Dean could almost imagine that they were walking side by side. Slaves and masters alike were so busy looking at their surrounds that no one was paying attention to the Hunter in black cotton boxers and the master he was following.

Dean looked at his master’s hand, swinging by his side, and imagined taking it in his own.

He had held Castiel’s hands before, of course. He had zippered their fingers together and pressed both arms into the bed, stretching Castiel in front of him like a delicacy, tantalising and sweet. But here, in the daylight, with people streaming past… he would never be allowed. A Caretaker trotted past with eight dogs around her. An alpha stood next to a fountain in a black jacket, watching the water bubble. People milled everywhere.

They sat in the shade of an oak tree, and Castiel’s hand rested on the grass between them. Dean tried to ignore it, and rolled his shoulders instead to release the day’s tensions. An idea popped into his mind, and wouldn’t be dismissed. It occurred to him that if he was feeling tense then his master would be even more so, and it offered the opportunity to touch without breaking any rules.

He knelt in the grass behind Castiel, and put his hands on his master’s back. When Castiel said nothing, he began to rub gentle circles, expanding out from the centre of his spine. The muscles of his own back started to release as though the massage was for him, not his master. They hummed in unison.

“Has Meg been teaching you her tricks?” Castiel murmured.

“No, sir.” He stored _that_ little piece information away and tried not to imagine the other places that Meg would be likely to massage.

“You don’t like her?”

“We don’t talk much, sir.”

“I see.”

There was a pause, and Dean watched his hands go higher. Castiel had taken off his tie, and his head was bent forward, exposing the back of his neck. Dean had never… never dared to touch his master’s nape, but his fingers were creeping upward… What would happen? If he massaged just right, if he could put his fingers on either side of the vertebrate and squeeze just right, what would happen? Dean had seen omegas go rigid from a bite; obeisance from the receptive muscles blending with adrenaline from the alpha bite, but what about from just Dean’s fingers? Could he get the first response without the other? Would Castiel go boneless in his arms?

His circling hands edged higher. He watched himself as though he was sitting in the oak, looking down from afar.

“Would you talk to me, then?” Castiel was continuing their conversation, and Dean could only murmur a dazed agreement as his fingers inched toward the soft skin of his master’s bared neck.

“Would you tell me about your last master?”

Dean choked and couldn’t stop himself from jerking away, Castiel’s neck forgotten.

His last master…

He had the sudden desperate urge to run, but forced himself to remain kneeling in the dirt. Castiel’s neck was still bared.

“It’s in my file,” he whispered, and his voice was stronger than it should have been. Every slave’s file had details of their previous owners, but Castiel was already shaking his head.

“Your file was blank.”

“That’s… that’s impossible… He was always so meticulous…”

“You were a guard.”

It wasn’t a question, but Dean nodded anyway, and when he realised Castiel couldn’t see him he added, “Yeah. Yes, sir. One of the master’s favourites, actually.” His old master’s face swam in his vision, smiling and friendly. Dean blinked it away. “I was so young,” he said, “and such a good shot. He used to take me to lunches and conferences and have me stand behind his chair with a gun in my belt.” Dean paused. “He treated me well, mostly.”

“Mostly?” Castiel prompted.

“A few punishments. Half rations for indiscretions. Other things. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And that’s where the scars came from.”

“No, sir. Not the scars.” Dean felt a tremor in his spine, but the sun was bright and the air was warm, turning cool as the afternoon became evening. The memory suddenly seemed so distant. So unbelievable. He was sitting under an oak tree. A duck quacked somewhere nearby.

They were both silent. There was a gentle breeze but Dean didn’t feel it. He was younger, scarless, a thousand miles away.

“I would like to hear that story one day,” Castiel said quietly.

Dean turned to watch a pair of birds fly past. “No, sir,” he said, “you wouldn’t.”

They watched the sunset in silence.

\--------------------------

Castiel decided to walk the few blocks home. Dean guessed that this was to give the mystery seller more chance to find them. He shook away the memory of his old master by staring around him, analysing the faces of pedestrians.

The streetlights were just starting to flick on. Some shops were closing up, and others were just opening. Pubs and karaoke bars spilt noise and laughter onto the street in loud waves that Castiel ignored.

“Hey, handsome,” a beta called from a shadowed doorway.

Castiel was taking the long way back to the hotel, purposefully walking through the shady parts of New York. Dean silently wished that the two Warriors hadn’t been dismissed. He would have liked a little extra muscle standing between his master and the people that were suddenly pushing past, drunk and jeering. Two pleasure slaves kissed in an open window, laughing. An alpha pulled a black hood further over his face as he brushed past.

Then he smelled it.

The streets were dirty, layers of vomit, piss, and the exhaust of cars. The people were even dirtier. Masters, lewd and rude and demanding attention. Slaves of all kinds intermingled between them. People smelling horny and angry and hungry and bored and everything in between.

But there was another scent, too. Metallic and cold. The smell of a freshly sharpened knife.

He caught his reflection in the dark window of a shop that had just closed. Saw himself as others might see him. A failure of a guard. Castiel walking unprotected in front. Dean closed the distance between them, put himself in arm’s reach.

He pretended to sneeze, turning his head to the side to cough into his elbow and catching a glimpse of the street behind him. It was slowly getting less crowded as people found their destinations and went indoors. A group of teenagers giggled as they got out of a taxi. A beggar nodded as someone threw him a coin. An alpha in a black jacket checked his wrist watch.

Dean had seen him before. The alpha. In the park, next to the fountain, and moments ago, brushing past them.

_We’re being followed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geeky side note: The dorsal immobility response is the thing that makes some animals freeze when you squeeze the neck. It’s found in lots of mammals that are quadrupedal (have to use all four limbs to move, aka can't pick things up and walk simultaneously) so mums can pick up bubs and carry them around (you can do this with kittens with your own fingers!) But for some reason the response persists into adulthood, and no one really knows why (my money is on sex). (This is different to the ventroflex problem in adult cats, which is a response to low thiamine (I think)). Okay but SUPER geeky side note... the response doesn't happen if the subject is already relaxed. It only works when senses are heightened (e.g. there is a predator and mumma needs to get bub to safety). So anyway probably nothing would have happened if Dean massaged Castiel’s neck but if he did it in the middle of something more *ahem* aggressive then, well, he might get a response ;) ;)
> 
> This geeky side note brought to you by six years of university debt.


	10. The Deuce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently The Deuce is the name of the red light district in New York. No, this chapter is not named after a poo. Sorry.
> 
> Also, as you may have noticed I don’t speak your gibberish American English (I mean, everyone knows that colour and flavour have a ‘u’ okay), but if you notice anything that is actually incomprehensible please point it out. [GertieCraign](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GertieCraign) has been pointing out the regularity of ‘smelt’ instead of ‘smelled’ with what I can only assume is [this face](http://i968.photobucket.com/albums/ae164/tegwas/Supernatural/tumblr_llniu2H5Sv1qbfd90.gif). Sorry GC. 
> 
> Anyway… where were we?
> 
> Oh yeah. Nefarious alpha in black jacket.

_We’re being followed._

Castiel hadn’t noticed, was casually strolling down the street, looking into shop windows. Dean had no way of warning him without attracting the attention of the alpha. Night had truly fallen and there were patches of inky black shadow at every corner, oozing malevolence.

_Work the problem._

It could be the mystery seller, but then why follow them for so long? The seller would have approached them earlier, casually. In the park.

It could be a hitman, but then why not stab Castiel before, as he brushed past?

If it was a thief, he would have gone to the hotel room instead.

It could be a coincidence, of course. Simple chance.

But then Dean smelled cold metal again, and malicious intent. So faint that nobody else reacted.

He realised why the alpha hadn’t made a move. It was because of _him._ He might be scarred and near-naked, but he was still a Hunter. No hitman would take down a master with a Hunter nearby. Someone who could smell and track and kill.

_If he wants to kill Castiel, he has to kill me too._

_Work the problem._

If the alpha _was_ a hitman, then they were probably _not_ a Warrior. Warriors were renowned for their strength, not their quick thinking. They took orders but they couldn’t strategize.

Dean figured it was probably an Angel, or even another Hunter.

He hoped it was the former.

An Angel would be hard to fight, but he would be outmatched in a fight anyway, with no clothes and a master to protect. The only chance they had was to escape a fight altogether, which would be impossible if the alpha was a Hunter.

_Okay, then. Assume Angel, but plan for Hunter._

_Work the problem._

The alpha would have to kill him first, obviously. A master without a guard would be an easy target. It would be a knife from behind, through his ribs, and another one slicing across Castiel’s throat. It would take three seconds. No one would hear it. The knife would be left behind as the alpha escaped into anonymity.

A true hitman would do it twice. One knife across the throat and another into the base of the neck.

There would be no coming back from that.

He was less important, of course. The hitman would probably only get him once, through a lung, up into the heart. He would get to watch his master die.

As his mind raced Castiel turned onto a side street, and Dean flinched when he saw how few people were around. _Safety in a crowd._ He desperately wondered if any of the bystanders could be trusted, but decided against it. They could be accomplices. The back of his neck prickled, as though it could already feel the cold steel of a blade.

Adrenaline made his heart hammer. His inner alpha was growling and if Dean had fur it would be on end. The main street was only a few blocks away, loud and dirty, and they were going to die within minutes of it.

Their follower turned onto the street behind them, footsteps indistinct to anyone but Dean. He guessed that the alpha was fifty feet away.

_Too close. We need distance. Get away. Find a crowd._

A couple walked past, holding hands and staring at each other. Dean grabbed Castiel’s wrist and yanked, darting behind the infatuated couple and into a dark alleyway.

“Dean, wha—”

“Run!” Dean panted, and didn’t wait for Castiel to obey, just gripped his wrist and sprinted for the other end of the alley.

He thought he could hear footsteps behind him, maybe one hundred feet away now, thanks to their surprise head-start, but closing fast. Castiel was too loud, breathing hard and flailing wildly, not able to keep up with Dean’s pace. He fleetingly wished that he could bite his master, to give him the kick of adrenaline from alpha teeth, but it was a futile wish at this speed, even if Castiel would allow it.

They turned a corner, Castiel skidding slightly as Dean jerked him round the bend without slowing. He got a glimpse of their pursuer, and saw a metal glint.

_Definitely not a friend, then._

“Faster,” Dean panted, but the main street was too far away, and Castiel was too slow; was breathing hard, exhausted already.

“Dean, wait—”

They turned another corner, and almost ran into a pleasure slave as she emerged from a nondescript door in the wall.

“Hey!” she barked, but Dean was already pulling Castiel through the door.

He glimpsed a dimly lit room. Red lamps on the walls. Slaves lounging on couches. He pulled Castiel through the room, and through another. Two women were dancing naked on a table.

“Oi!” someone shouted, but then they went through another door which Dean slammed shut behind them.

This room was crowded. Hot and humid from too many sweaty bodies. They had come in a back entrance and Dean pulled Castiel into the writhing mess. Pleasure slaves coaxed the crowd from alcoves in the walls, inviting people closer. A boy swung himself around a pole on a stage. An omega was ripping her dress into pieces, throwing black fabric at the crowd as she slowly revealed more skin. A group of masters cheered and hooted.

_Safety in a crowd._

Dean squeezed himself further into the room, dragging Castiel behind him. When he looked back his master looked smaller. Awkward and overdressed in the teeming bodies that pressed close. He was wearing a trench coat, dangerously recognisable in the midst of jeans and sweaty shirts and near-naked slaves kissing and groping around them.

Dean saw the back door open, and glimpsed a black jacket as the alpha stalked in, scowling. He averted his gaze before his eye contact could draw attention.

He was pretty sure they weren’t in danger of being stabbed, not with so many witnesses around, but he wouldn’t take the chance. Not with Castiel.

He quickly slid his hands under the shoulders of Castiel’s coat, and pushed it off, flinging it away. It was immediately lost under trampling feet. Castiel didn’t complain. He may not know the source of Dean’s anxiety but even he would be able to smell Dean’s fear by now. He didn’t fight as Dean manoeuvred him into a knot of people so that there were bodies pressed against them. Dean didn’t avoid the contact, letting his own scent rub off. Castiel just watched him with eyes like saucers, wide and unblinking and panicked in a way that had Dean’s heart thundering.

The omega on stage ripped her dress off completely and threw it at the crowd. Dean snagged it from the air, throwing it over his own shoulders and neck to hide his scars and caste mark. In his peripheries he saw the black jacket as the alpha waded through the crowd, pulling people apart to look at them. If the alpha was a Hunter they were screwed. He stared at Castiel, whose eyes somehow looked bigger. Far too blue.

The black jacket came closer and Dean couldn’t think, had run out of ideas. He felt his alpha teeth push out, further than they had in years, responding to the adrenaline. He put a hand on Castiel’s waist, pulled him close. One hand on his neck, too, protecting the vulnerable tissue there, and he remembered that only hours earlier he had fantasised about just that.

It smelled like piss and pleasure, but Dean could still smell Castiel over the top. _The ocean,_ he thought stupidly. _And rain._ Had he ever told his master how good he smelled? How he belonged in catalogues and magazines?

People jostled them from all sides and it was easy to move even closer, to draw Castiel into the safety of his arms. The alpha inside him was rising, louder than ever, responding to fear and desire and the urgent need to protect. Castiel looked up at him, fingers curling against his chest, and Dean imagined the black jacketed alpha pulling them apart, recognising his master’s face, blade flashing.

Dean leaned down to hide Castiel’s features, wishing for longer hair. He felt rather than saw as the alpha approached, and he turned his face to Castiel, pulling him desperately closer.

_Don’t let him pull us apart._

Castiel was panting in short, sharp breaths, and it was absurdly effortless to simply close the tiny distance between them and cover his master’s lips with his own.

A hand landed on his shoulder, but it was a thousand miles away.

Castiel’s mouth was open beneath his, warm and impossible.

The hand on his shoulder yanked, trying to part them, but the alpha inside him was roaring, responding only to instinct and desire and to the soft wet pressure of a tongue against his. A tongue tracing the curved point of one canine.

The hand yanked again, and he was distantly aware that he should be responding, so he took his hand off Castiel’s hip and flipped the bird at whoever was behind him.

_I am a pleasure slave and this is my client._

He put his hand back on Castiel’s hip, trailed lower to his thigh, hitched it up so that his leg was around Dean’s waist, holding them together. Flipped the bird again at whoever still had their hand on his shoulder.

_Nothing to see here. I am a pleasure slave and this is my client._

There was a grunt of surprise, and the hand pulled back.

One part of his brain was tracking movements as the alpha backed off, ( _not a Hunter, thank god,_ ) but the other part, the louder part, was lost in the taste and feel of an omega against him.

That was Castiel’s lips, and teeth, and tongue.

That was his _master._

Dean gasped, and Castiel filled the space with his own breath, and suddenly Dean didn’t even need to pretend.

 _I_ am _a pleasure slave,_ he thought. _And this_ is _my client._

Castiel’s tongue was in his mouth and it was illogical, couldn’t be real. Temptation incarnate as he felt the tip of an alpha tooth slide sharp and unbearable against the wet muscle of an omega’s tongue, pressing feather-light, and he didn’t know what to make of the fact that it was his master dancing with fire; inviting an alpha’s bite. Playing a game of seduction that he didn’t think either of them could win.

He wanted to bite down, hard. Wanted to bury his teeth in whatever he could reach.

_No biting._

The black jacketed alpha was only a few feet away, shoving at patrons as he made his way through the crowd and Dean was a Hunter, couldn’t stop himself from tracking the movements, but he was an alpha too and his teeth had been bared for hours, or maybe even years, and Castiel was warmth and rain-soaked fields and sin.

_No biting. No biting._

He sucked hard, instead, shoved his own tongue forward, ignored the way his teeth ached and then Castiel was moaning into his mouth and the moment of temptation had passed.

Six feet to their left the black-jacketed alpha howled in frustration, but the sound was lost in the din of catcalls and jeering masters.

Castiel shook against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing a kink I never knew I had: someone’s tongue on a tooth.
> 
> Will update next chapter in a day or two because we all know where this is headed and I am a sinner with porn for a brain.  
> See ya’ll in church.


	11. The Deuce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck rule two.

A floodgate had been opened.

Repressed desire unleashed itself in stifled moans and hungry mouths.

The adrenaline wasn’t subsiding, and neither were their heartrates, only transferring from danger into delight.

Castiel’s mouth was meeting his.

Blood was pounding in his ears.

They were an ocean, or maybe a storm, colliding at last in crashing waves and forked lightning. And there was another master who had once been a storm but that master had been made of hate and rage and bitter cold and that was _nothing_ like this. Castiel was rain over open fields, clouds made of deep blues and the promise of sunsets. The _taste._ He could lose himself in the wet heat. He pulled Castiel closer.

_What if I had lost you._

Not a question, just a howling adrenaline-fueled terror that he could only calm with fingers and skin and tongue.

_What if I had lost you._

He was distantly aware that his movements were being matched. Every hitch of his hips, every lick of his tongue copied as they devoured each other. Castiel let out a groan, or maybe it was his own, and it was lost in between them, swallowed in hungry breaths. He had hands in hair, hands on skin, hands roving the soft yielding body that shuddered and rolled against him.

Castiel parted to gasp at the air, and Dean panted “ _Cas,_ ” descending to lick at the sweaty skin of his master’s neck before Castiel pulled him back up, locking their lips together again. The leg around his waist tugged, forcing Dean to stumble forward, pushing their crotches together. Dean let his hips grind down, was rewarded with a hiss as Castiel jerked against him, both of them nothing more than _want, want, want._ Dean extricated a hand to shove in between them, palming Castiel roughly through his pants.

“Hey,” said a voice, “save some for me, cutie.” It was one of the pleasure slaves, pouting at them. “You boys need a private room for this.” She winked. “Let mumma help you.”

Castiel was too gone to answer, sucking bruises into the skin of Dean’s neck as he parted for long enough to snarl, or maybe he said, “Lead the way,” because she smiled at him before he leaned back into Castiel’s mouth.

 _A private room._ A part of him noted that it was safer, somewhere to hole up. The alpha part of his brain was pleased for other reasons.

The slave sashayed away, and when Castiel made no move to extricate himself to follow, Dean simply grabbed his ass and lifted, hoisting him up, carrying him through the crowd after the little slave. All around him others were doing the same thing, wrapping themselves around each other and revealing kiss-marked skin. They were part of the crowd, and moved through it easily.

For an instant he saw a black jacket, but the owner was on the other side of the room, facing away, and Dean grinned to himself.

“Here we are, boys,” the pleasure slave said. She was tiny. Thin and pale. A beta. She held the door open for them as Dean carried Castiel inside, and then she followed them in. Dean dumped Castiel on the bed as she lit a candle. He tore his boxers off at record speed while Castiel tried to pull him back down and their mouths met just as the beta crawled up next to them, reaching for Castiel’s belt buckle. Dean slapped her away.

“Get out,” he growled.

“Excuse me?”

He patted Castiel’s pockets and ripped out his wallet, threw some bills at the girl, hoped it was enough.

“Get out,” he said again, and it must have been enough money because then they were alone and he had just enough presence of mind to lock the door behind her before he was leaping at Castiel again, ripping at his pants and shoving fabric aside so he could cover Castiel’s body with his own.

Castiel whined, completely incapable of speech as Dean exposed his hole, already _dripping_ and smelling like sweet perfection and Dean had only a moment to shove two fingers in, to bring that taste to his mouth, before Castiel was scrabbling at his hips to pull him closer and Dean was sliding into place.

They scratched at each other, clawed at limbs and flesh, pushed and pulled to get more, feel more. Their teeth met painfully as they kissed, unable to stop themselves from tasting each other even as Dean thrust sharply forward.

They were too frantic for finesse, and Castiel was so on edge that he wouldn’t have noticed anyway. Instead, Dean grabbed one of Castiel’s ankles and held it up at shoulder height, keeping him spread when he began to writhe beneath him.

Even through the haze of lust and slick, Dean could still smell the stale fear and his own drenched terror, and it made his inner alpha thrash in his stomach and batter against the walls of his brain, sending conflicting signals of _protect_ and _claim_ and _fuck_ and _Cas._

When he growled he felt Castiel shudder beneath him, squeezing him where he was buried deep inside. He threw his head back, and it should have felt unnatural to have his throat bared but Castiel seized up at the sight, chin coming down to leave the back of his neck free and it was an invitation too sweet to ignore, so Dean put his hand there and his thumb found the exact location it was looking for, pressed deep, and they both reacted at the same time. Castiel curling forward, folding himself in half as he squeezed Dean from within, both of them choking out half-formed words and gasping at oxygen that was no longer there. 

At the last moment he remembered rule three, No Knotting, and he pulled out just as the base of his cock started to expand. The half-formed knot caught on Castiel’s rim as he withdrew, and the omega howled as he came. Some of his semen landed on Dean’s stomach and dick, pushing him over the edge as well. He came hard, and his release mixed with his master’s, splattering over them both.

He fell forward, panting as he covered Castiel’s body with his own.

Dean half expected to start purring. His inner alpha felt sated and content, and he was physically covering the vulnerable body of an omega, a satisfaction he was rarely allowed.

They lay in silence, just breathing.

The sweat and semen cooled as they calmed. His knot subsided and he felt his alpha teeth retract.

He was surprised to find that he was somewhat embarrassed. He had had his teeth out in front of a crowd of people.

But then he remembered why.

“We were followed,” he said quietly.

Castiel was almost catatonic, but he blinked himself awake. “I don’t think they’ll find us in here. Even _I_ have no idea where we are.”

“We’re four blocks from Times Square,” Dean said, surprised.

“Oh?” Castiel blinked at his surroundings, but it was half-hearted at best. “You really do have an excellent sense of direction.”

There was a knock at the door. “Time’s up!” someone yelled. Dean stalked to the door, opened it a fraction, shoved some more notes through, and slammed it closed again. He rejoined Castiel on the bed. His master’s lips were red and swollen. Even his chin and cheek looked raw.

“I broke rule two,” Dean said as he scratched guiltily at his stubble. His dick very much liked the red of Castiel’s lips, and wasn’t feeling guilty at all. In fact it was perking up a bit at the sight.

Castiel blinked up at him. “I think,” he said, “that New York gets a free pass on rule two.”

Dean grinned, and rolled on top of him. “Yes, sir,” he said, and then he leaned down to capture Castiel’s lips once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: okay just get someone to follow them home so they can kiss before the end of chapter 9.
> 
> [2000 word sex scene later]
> 
> Me: eh, close enough.
> 
> PhD update: If I spent as much time on my proposal as I did on this fic then I’d probably be a doctor by now.


	12. The Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Repercussions.

_Perhaps the most irritating piece of slave history is the Angel caste. Where some castes have been cultured successfully (the Artist caste, for example), and others have been drastically culled (Hunter numbers have dramatically decreased since 1870), the Angels have been resistant to both. In times of war or famine, when their numbers were needed most, the Angel females were almost infertile, and yet in peaceful times, when we have Angels aplenty, there seems to be no stopping their reproduction._

—Excerpt from _Understanding Castes_ , by C. M. Cooper

 

In the end they had to give up on the trench coat. It was lost in the teeming dirty mess of the pleasure house. Dean extricated his black boxers from underneath the bed and tried to ignore the stink of it as he helped Castiel button up his ripped shirt and pants.

Castiel huffed, embarrassed, but secretly Dean loved it. Loved that they would be returning to the hotel looking dirty and used, smelling of each other and the filthy sheets of a pleasure house. Loved that the rips in Castiel’s shirt perfectly matched the shape of his fingers, made him want to claw and mark again.

“We’ll have to get a taxi. I cannot be seen like this in daylight.”

“The sun won’t rise for another hour,” Dean soothed, tracing the path that one of his nails had taken through the seam of Castiel’s shirt.

“Stop that. I can smell you.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean murmured, then leant over his master’s shoulder to kiss him slow and deep.

Someone knocked on the door, loud and insistent. “Times up!”

Dean sighed, and opened it a crack. A pale expectant face stared back at him. Not the alpha from last night, though Dean hadn’t expected it. He was just being cautious.

As they exited the room the pale girl looked crestfallen, as though she had expected them to pay for another hour. Dean wondered how much money his master’s wallet had forked over so far. He licked his lips, still tasting Castiel, and found he didn’t care.

He carefully prowled the empty room and the club outside while Castiel huffed impatiently behind him, but any trace of the black-jacketed alpha was long gone. Granted, Dean was fairly distracted from his search, since Castiel’s scent seemed to linger in the air, but he hadn’t kept high hopes anyway.

They got a taxi home.

At the hotel Castiel crossed the empty foyer with Dean two paces behind him. They were both play-acting normalcy but Dean suspected that the scandalised receptionist wasn’t fooled in the slightest. From Castiel’s hunched shoulders Dean guessed that his master had realised the same thing. He thrilled at the thought. Last night wasn’t just theirs, anymore. Other people knew, now. Other people had seen what he had done to his master. What his master had done to him.

The lift had barely _dinged_ shut before Dean was crowding Castiel against the back wall, nipping at his lower lip. Sunrise was still an hour away, more than enough time…

“Dean,” Castiel sighed, and his voice was rough. Whiskey over barbed wire. Dean drank it in, licked his way over those soft perfect lips. He dragged his hands down Castiel’s sides, catching the rips in his fingers as he went. A reminder of their night, of the way Castiel tasted. The exact shape of his mouth from the inside.

He kissed his way across Castiel’s lips, along his jaw, up to the spot beneath his ear where the scent was strongest. Castiel’s nose was against his neck, too, and Dean felt a soft tongue on his skin. Castiel was tracing the caste mark, breathing hot air against Dean’s throat.

He shoved a knee in between Castiel’s thighs and didn’t move fast enough to swallow the answering moan from his master’s mouth.

The door _dinged_ open and the end of the moan echoed throatily in the hall.

“Master Novak!”

“Sir!”

Shit. The guards were still here.

Dean took his arm off Castiel’s hip, but his master didn’t move from his side.

“Sir! You never came back to the hotel!”

Castiel waved away their concern as he stepped into the hallway. “As you can see, I had no need for a guard last night.” He was somehow radiating cool authority, though Dean could see the hickeys on his neck. “You are both dismissed.” His fingers flicked but the guards didn’t back off, following them to the door of the room.

“Sir, we thought—”

“We panicked, sir, and—”

“Dismissed,” Castiel said again with finality.

They reached the end of the hall and Dean opened the door, standing aside so his master could enter before slamming it shut on the two guards. He turned to Castiel, excited and ready, already salivating.

But the room wasn’t empty.

“Master Novak.”

Dean leaped in front of his master, an instinctual response that he regretted as soon as he saw that the other occupant was a master. He bared his throat in supplication as he backed off, cheeks blazing and erection falling. His cheeks felt hot; a mixture of repressed desire and intense mortification.

There was a stranger in the hotel room, and if it had been an assassin Castiel would already be dead.

He went to the door and dropped to his knees beside it, staring fixedly at the roof.

Castiel was silent as the other master approached, looking scruffy next to the well-fitting suit of the beta. Dean would have been in between them both, regardless of the stranger’s status, but he couldn’t smell any weapons, and couldn’t justify a defensive response if the master wasn’t a threat.

 “Master Crowley, I presume?” Castiel looked ridiculous in his tattered clothing, though he was holding himself ramrod straight.

“Master Novak,” the stranger said again, and he was condescension personified. Dean could _hear_ the judgement in his voice.

“Master Crowley, I’ve been looking for—”

“I know what you’re looking for, Novak.”

“You have a group that size, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you don’t have what I’m looking for?”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

Master Crowley opened the mini fridge and helped himself to a tiny bottle of whiskey. He cracked it open and swallowed the contents whole, then reached back into the fridge for another before throwing himself onto a nearby chair and flinging an insolent leg over the armrest.

“My Warriors became… _agitated_ when you didn’t return home last night,” he said lazily.

“Yours? I was under the impression that the guards were provided by the syndicate,” Castiel replied, voice strained.

“I am the syndicate.”

“I… see.”

“And, after providing you with such generous hospitality, you can surely understand my surprise when I came to your hotel and found that you had not only dismissed my Warriors and wandered off unguarded—no, don’t try to argue—but that you spent all night in,” he sniffed delicately, “a _pleasure house,_ instead of awaiting my arrival.” Castiel tried to interrupt but Master Crowley hadn’t finished. “I then discover, Master Novak, that the buyer I have heard so much about has let himself be _degraded_ by a slave, and has been walking around the streets of New York looking like little more than a slave himself.”

“I really—”

“I was under the impression, Master Novak, that you were in town for _business,_ not pleasure, and I can scarcely believe that my people thought fit to meet with you.”

“What I do in my spare time should have no impact on the—”

“Oh but it does, little master.” Dean bristled, but Master Crowley seemed to be enjoying himself. “We can’t deal with every moneyed-up hotshot that walks in with a briefcase of fresh notes.” He shrugged. “Reputation, you know.”

“I think you’ll find that my credentials—”

“What I _find,_ Master Novak, is a dirty, bedraggled _kid_ with a dirty bedraggled _Hunter._ ” He got up and made his way to the door. He turned as he reached it. “It appears, Master Novak, that we may have had some incorrect information about you.”

“Please,” Castiel said quietly, and Dean felt the muscles in his forearms tense as his master begged. “I can pay.”

“I don’t deal with dregs, Master Novak. I deal with masters.” He opened the door and walked through. The Warriors saluted him. “I’ll be watching,” he called behind himself, and then the door was slamming closed and Dean was alone with his master again.

He stood up shakily, and made his way over.

“S-Sir?”

Castiel didn’t reply, and Dean reached out a tentative hand.

“Castiel?”

But his master shrugged him off and walked away, ripping his filthy shirt off as he went. Buttons scattered.

“Cas, I—”

“Master Novak,” Castiel corrected, and Dean stepped back as though punched.

“No, Cas, this isn’t—”

Castiel rounded on him. “I am not your _friend,_ ” he hissed. “I am your _master._ And you will show me the respect I deserve.”

Dean gaped, and something hot tickled the back of his eye. “Please,” he murmured, reaching out again.

“Heel,” Castiel snarled, and Dean dropped to his knees with an instinct that was older than memory.

He stared at the floor, trying to work out how he’d gotten there, and then looked back up.

“You will not,” snarled Castiel from above him, “presume to use that name again, Hunter.”

Something slid down Dean’s face, and it felt like a tear but he didn’t remember shedding it.

“You are a _slave,_ ” Castiel continued, lips pulled back in a growl.

I’m _your_ slave, Dean wanted to argue, but he raised his eyes instead, and bared his neck.

“This is _your fault,_ Hunter, and I will not allow it to continue.”

Dean realised it was true. He’d let himself get distracted. He had known his master’s plan for New York and he had jeopardised that the moment their lips had touched.

“You will _submit,_ Hunter. You will _obey._ ”

“Yes, sir,” Dean murmured, ignoring the tear that dripped off his cheek and onto the hotel carpet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D:
> 
>  
> 
> [Cas, no!](https://68.media.tumblr.com/3dea9481005b4e7b6970317c36e1e11f/tumblr_oif0ywQbC81su15fxo3_r1_250.gif)


	13. The Mansion

_Slave biologists have long believed that the genetic difference between castes is contained in the maternal mitochondrial DNA (McCauley et al. 1986), though this doesn’t account for the Stargazer caste; the only caste to follow a non-maternal lineage._

—Opening from _Understanding Castes_ , by C. M. Cooper

 

“Traitor,” the master snarled. “Liar.”

Dean knew it was a dream, but his blood was making patterns on a wooden table, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

“Please,” he whimpered instead, and his master didn’t listen, but neither did Benny, and it was Benny’s hand on his shoulder, after all.

“Wake up, brother. S’in your head.”

Dean groaned, and Benny handed him a glass of water.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. The water was cool on his dry throat.

“No problem, chief. I was already up.”

They both knew it was a lie. He looked around, but they were alone.

“Meg’s still—?”

“Yeah, she ain’t come down yet.”

Which meant she was still with Master Novak. Dean stared glumly at the empty glass until Benny pulled it out of his fingers.

“The nightmares weren’t like this before,” Benny said quietly.

Dean didn’t reply, not denying the truth of the statement. Betraying a master seemed like a nightmare that followed him both when he was awake and asleep.

“Will you… Can’t you tell me, chief?”

Dean shook his head, and stood up. “I’m gonna take a walk,” he announced, before slipping out of the room. It was still dark, so Benny might be able to get back to sleep, but Dean was sure that he wouldn’t be able to himself.

The gardens were eerie at night. The moon turned leaves into silver, and the lawns were almost soft enough to swim in, grass undulating in the breeze. It was silent, and beautiful, but he could barely see it.

Benny just wanted to help, he was sure, but Dean could hardly look at him without thinking of Castiel.

Master Novak had gone back to only using Dean as an alpha. He wasn’t invited to stay, and he wasn’t invited to talk. He hadn’t touched Castiel with anything other than bruising fingers and hard cock. And it would have been fine if Dean didn’t know any better, but now he _knew_ what his master tasted like. He knew what the inside of his mouth felt like against his tongue. He knew the flavour of him, his slick pouring delicious perfection into the air, but he was no longer allowed to partake.

He cursed himself for ever trying for more.

If he had never taken that first taste he wouldn’t now be suffering in its absence.

“ _Cas,_ ” he moaned, and he fell to his knees in the dirt.

The sky was clear, and the stars seemed to mock him as he knelt beneath them. They didn’t fall to earth as he half expected them to, but continued to twinkle in idle merriment, a painful contrast to his own condition.

Across the grounds a shadow moved, and Dean almost convinced himself to care about it before he remembered the Warriors. It was close to 3am now and they would be rotating patrol. The shadow was just a guard.

He fell backwards to lie spreadeagled on the ground.

He had been a guard once, and the patrol rotations had been as ingrained as breathing. A part of him missed the surety of regularity. He missed knowing exactly where he was supposed to be. He missed the structure.

Of course, the structure had been mainly for the Warriors, who were naturally inclined to follow orders, but Dean had enjoyed it, too.

Being a guard had been simple.

But then had come the saleyards, and apparently he hadn’t even had a record to show his years of service as a guard, so of _course_ no one had been willing to take him.

Until Castiel…

Castiel had literally saved him.

And then… Castiel had tried to save others. Had tried to end an unregistered slave ring…

And Dean had ruined it.

He tasted something bitter in his mouth, and spat, though the taste didn’t go away.

Castiel had _saved_ him, and then he had been the factor that stopped any other slave from being saved, too.

He didn’t realise he was ripping out a clump of grass until he felt the roots breaking beneath his fingers. He held up the mess of dirty stalks, and imagined ripping out his own insides in the same manner. Abstractly, he pictured plunging his hand into his own belly and yanking out the oozing, clawing feeling of guilt that had taken up permanent residence within him.

There were whole families of slaves that needed saving, and he had single handedly doomed them all.

He dropped the grass clump back to the ground, but the damage was done. The roots would soon shrivel and the leaves would dry up.

In the moonlight the grass looked silver, but all Dean could see was red.

\-------------------------

He forgot to wash the dirt out of his nails, so that night when he was called to the master’s bedroom he felt even more unclean than usual.

Master Novak didn’t comment.

Dean simply pulled himself out of his boxers and pumped himself one handed while his master wordlessly stripped.

It wasn’t difficult, really. He never had a problem getting hard, not when Castiel smelled like rain, but Rule Three had become a bit obsolete. He never had a chance at orgasm, and knotting was a far-flung possibility when Castiel wouldn’t even _look_ at him.

They fucked on the bed, as usual.

Castiel was tense from his work, and he gripped the sheets as he knelt in the centre of the gigantic circular mattress. Dean crawled up behind him and tried to convince himself to flip his master over, but he didn’t. He never did. They fucked like that, with Castiel turned away and Dean making animal grunts in an attempt to get his master off faster.

Castiel never made it easy, though.

When they got into it he would moan and writhe, make all the same noises he had always made, and order Dean to go _faster_ and _harder_ and _fuck yes just like that._

Dean would robotically comply, would squeeze Castiel’s hips with his hands and pound into him with all the strength he could muster, but most of his brain power was being spent on keeping his scent under control. He was fairly certain that his real emotions—the pain and guilt and grief—would kill the mood, and so he focused on Castiel’s back. The eighteen freckles thrown randomly over his skin, and the way sweat pooled at the back of his neck.

Dean remembered touching that exact spot, pressing his thumb deep into the—

_No._

He readjusted his grip and drew invisible constellations between the eighteen freckles, and focused on going harder. Faster.

When Castiel finally came it was with a moan so deep that Dean felt it in his toes. He pulled out, and without the warmth of a pliant body his erection fell almost immediately.

Castiel rolled over, and his dick was soft as well. Dean’s inner alpha whined, begging to lick it clean, but Dean easily pushed the urge aside. He wanted to prove his worth to his master, but Castiel had made it abundantly clear that cleaning and caring were no longer part of his job description.

“Send Benny,” Castiel murmured, and he didn’t even need to flick his fingers because Dean was dismissing himself already.

He lay awake for long hours, scared to fall asleep. He knew what waited for him if he closed his eyes, and he didn’t want to spend another night watching his own blood pool beneath him.

So he pictured Castiel instead.

He pictured his master’s eyes, looking blue and wide and amazed. He pictured his master’s lips, rubbed raw from Dean’s own. He pictured his master’s neck, the way it flushed red when the muscles tightened. He could almost taste the sweat of his master’s skin.

“I just want to be good,” he whispered at the image of Castiel he had created in his mind. But the image wasn’t real, and it wavered.

“You are here only for my pleasure,” it told him.

And Dean had his answer.

He waited for the sun to rise before he woke Meg up.

She blinked lazily up at him. “Morning, alpha,” she murmured. “Did you bring me breakfast in bed?”

He cut her off before she could get distracted. “I need your help,” he told her, and her grin was all teeth.

“I could use your help too,” she purred, pulling her blanket aside in an obvious invitation.

Dean took a breath. “I want you to teach me how to… how to give master a blow job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday Meg.
> 
> Okay. So. Caste marks.
> 
> When I started this monstrosity of a fic I had planned on writing details of the caste mark into the plot, but here we are at chapter 13 and it hasn’t happened yet so, like the guilty writer I am, I’m simply going to put some photos here for anyone who is interested.
> 
> Caste marks = a birth mark collar. Kinda like [this](http://www.maruha-studio.ru/wp-content/gallery/yaroslav/thumbs/thumbs_54b.jpg) but nowhere near as dark. On light skin it would be golden/henna coloured. On dark skin it would be darker. This photo would be a Warrior’s caste mark I guess. [Here’s what an Angel caste mark might look like](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b9/b5/a2/b9b5a2c5e654dcd79ea2a9fff9e8215b.jpg) (if you removed the weird bit in the middle). Still a collar but totally different shape. Anyone would instantly be able to classify a slave by looking at their caste mark.
> 
> Caste marks would differ very slightly from person to person but are essentially identical for everyone in the same caste, regardless of alpha/beta/omega. But wait, how would a blind person know your caste? Well that, dear friends, actually is part of the plot, and we are slowly but surely getting there.


	14. The Mansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy International Women's Day folks ;)

_With an increased ability to recognize and manipulate emotions, Angels have also found positions in psychiatric care and, perhaps unsurprisingly, industries of law. They are at their most useful when in direct contact with other castes, though they tend not to work well with other Angels._

—Excerpt from _Understanding Castes_ , by C. M. Cooper

 

Dean could tell that Meg was completely awake, though her eyes were still half-lidded.

“Is it my birthday?” she giggled.

“I’m serious, Meg.”

“Oh pretty Hunter, I can tell. That’s what worries me.”

“So you’ll teach me?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll maybe teach me?”

“What do I get in return?”

“What… what do you want in return?”

Her eyes were still half-lidded, and a languid smile spread across her mouth. “Oh, little alpha. Where do I even start?”

Dean had a sinking feeling in his stomach. “W-what?”

“I’ll show you ways to pleasure a man, little alpha.”

“You will?”

She hummed. “But only if I get to show you… _in the flesh._ ”

Dean sat back on his heels. “Y-you want to, um…”

She giggled lazily. “Master doesn’t care what we do in our spare time, if that’s what worries you.”

“N-no, that’s not the problem, I just…” Dean tried to think. What _was_ the problem? It would be worth it, surely. He looked at Meg. She was pretty enough. Gorgeous, even. It wouldn’t be _difficult._

“I like it when you blush, Hunter.” Meg licked her lips. It was the slowest movement Dean had ever seen. He could see just a hint of white teeth, and her lips were red and spit-shiny. He swallowed.

He could do it, he thought. For Castiel.

“No pheromones,” he said.

“Deal,” she agreed quickly.

“Then… okay.”

Meg was on him in a second, rolling out of bed and landing on top as Dean fell to the floor.

“Finally,” she murmured, descending to kiss at his neck, moving up to his jaw, aiming for his lips.

Dean couldn’t help it, he arched into the touch. It was too similar to what he had been craving. He felt fingers slipping into the waistband of his boxers. He remembered another omega touching him in the same manner.

But Meg was softer. Curvier.

He shoved at her.

“Don’t! Stop!”

Meg leaned back. “Urgh, Hunter. What?”

“N-no kissing.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?”

Dean just glared at her until she rolled her eyes.

“You sound like Master.”

Of course. Rule fucking two. It had gotten him into this mess, and it wasn’t about to get him out.

“No kissing,” he repeated. It just felt… too personal. An invasion. He had finally figured out why Castiel had ordered the same thing all those weeks ago.

Meg rolled her eyes, but when she stretched out on top of him she didn’t aim for his lips again. “If you insist on making things… hard…” She trailed her fingers down his stomach. “Then we’ll go slow.” She pulled back so just one finger was touching him, scratching through the hairs on his stomach. “The first step,” she said, “is to know the most sensitive areas.” Her finger tripped over the black fabric of his boxers, somehow evading his dick, for which he was both annoyed and thankful for.

“I know what’s sensitive,” he griped.

She smirked. “No you don’t, little alpha. Not like I do.” The finger trailed down the inside of one thigh, and then up the other. It tickled, and left goosebumps in its wake. “The not-touching is just as important as the touching,” she murmured, and again her finger skipped his dick as it made a loop over his boxers, skimming his belly button before heading back down in a big circle.

 _Okay,_ he thought. _I can remember that. Big circles._

He felt the finger go over his thigh again, and then swap to his other leg to go back up. It wasn’t slow, but it certainly wasn’t fast, either. He could feel her nail where it occasionally scratched him.

She reached his boxers again, and again she bypassed the centre of his crotch as she circled round.

“Meg,” he finally warned, “I thought you were showing me your blow job skills.”

“I’m just being thorough,” she murmured.

“Well can you be thorough a bit faster?”

The finger didn’t speed up at all, just kept going in circles over his thighs, across his boxers, skimming his belly button, then down again. Dean was tense, both dreading and anticipating the eventual change to something else. His inner alpha was trying to convince him to just roll the omega over, but he had _asked_ for help, after all. He _wanted_ to know.

He knew the general gist of what he wanted to do, but it’s not like he’d had much of an opportunity to try it out, and if he wanted to give this to Castiel—which he did, very much—then he wanted it to be perfect.

He was embarrassed to feel himself swelling slightly, even though a part of him knew it was going to happen.

“The second step is to focus on smell,” she said, seeing his reaction. She kept making soft circles on his skin.

“I’m a Hunter. Smelling is _not_ an issue.”

“Yeah, yeah, Hunter. I’m sure you can smell a rabbit from the other side of the country, but can you try and focus on something other than your fragile ego for one second?”

Dean glared at her. “I don’t know what Master sees in you.”

“Says the alpha who’s hard before I’ve even really touched him. Now pay attention. What do I smell like?”

“Omega,” Dean growled. “I don’t see how this is—”

“ _Focus._ What is my _scent._ I wanna get to the good stuff.” She paused. “Unless you _can’t_ , of course…”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You smell like chestnuts,” he snapped.

“Good, so then we—”

“And when you wake up it’s sweeter, like chestnut sugar. When you’re with Master Novak you smell stronger, and when you’re happy I can _smell_ it. Roasted chestnuts, kind of. Sometimes I think it’s Jo baking in the kitchen but then I look over and you’re flicking your hair and the whole room smells like fucking chestnuts. Happy?”

The finger paused, and when Dean looked over—disgruntled and regretting his decision to ask for help—he saw that Meg’s pupils were dilated. She cleared her throat, and started moving her hand again. The circles were a little faster, a little tighter.

“Scenting,” she said, and Dean was probably imagining the slightly breathless quality to her voice. “An important step. Although Benny always said it was more like almonds.”

The smell of aroused omega became unmistakeable. Dean wasn’t used to smelling it without Castiel’s accompanying scent, and he didn’t know what to do with the fact that it was _Meg._ Crafty, conniving Meg who left fingerprints and bite marks on Castiel’s body.

Dean turned his face away, but didn’t get up.

He was going to get through this. He was going to do it.

Meg hadn’t noticed his sudden mood change. Her finger was still moving. “The next step,” she whispered, “is to—”

The door swung open, and for all Meg’s talk of _Master Novak is fine with this_ , she sprang away from him as fast as he sprang away from her.

But it was just Benny.

“Did I miss somethin’ fun?” he drawled, eyeing Dean as he rearranged his boxers.

“You probably had just as much fun,” Meg replied, and she winked deviously but Dean could see that her cheeks were pink.

“Hmm. Can’t argue with that.”

“Meg agreed to, er… help me out,” Dean clarified.

Benny smirked. “I know you know how to deal with that, chief.”

“Little alpha wanted some specialist training,” Meg said smoothly. “As a present for Master Novak.”

“Oh and let me guess. You were so kind as t’offer your services?”

“I am _such_ a generous person,” she sighed dramatically.

“Oh I just bet.” Benny turned to Dean. “Listen, brother. You want advice I’ll give it to ya. And the price won’t be so steep as this here lady says it is.”

“Too bad, Benny. He asked me first.”

“How much?” Dean asked over the top of her. Meg crossed her arms with a huff.

“Nothin’ huge, chief. Just a story, tha’s all.”

“A story?” Dean squinted suspiciously. “What story?”

Benny nodded in his direction. “How’d you get those scars?”

“What, these?” Dean looked down at his body, at the smattering of scars on his chest and legs. “Fights, you know. Warriors from the saleyards.”

“I don’ mean those scratches, brother. I mean the shit you got goin’ on back there.”

Dean tensed, and his neck prickled. The scars on his back suddenly felt overly sensitive. “Fights at the saleyard,” he repeated.

“You’re a terrible liar, chief.”

Meg giggled, and Dean bristled. “It’s the truth.”

Benny shrugged. “Fine. Enjoy your lesson from the lady.”

A tickling finger trailed down his stomach towards the black boxers again. Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

“Where were we?” Meg whispered, and she still smelled like aroused omega but it was different. It wasn’t Castiel.

“Sensitive areas,” he said through clenched teeth. “Scents.”

He could hear Benny laughing softly from somewhere nearby and Meg’s finger had felt good before but he now realised it was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

“Then,” Meg murmured, “when you’ve got their attention, you give them a little taste…” Her finger made a detour, one gentle line up the side of his cock.

Dean jerked away.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Meg protested.

Benny cackled.

“Okay, _shit,_ I’ll tell you the damn story,” Dean told him. Meg got to her feet and stomped off to the bathroom. Dean could hear her muttering about jumpy alphas the whole way.

Benny raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “Well?” he said. “I’m listenin’.”

“If I tell you, you’ll tell me how to…?”

Benny nodded, eyebrow still raised, and Dean coughed self-consciously. He reached over his shoulder to touch the top of one scar. “Okay, well, um… They-they’re not accidents. They’re from my last place.” He coughed again.

“How?”

“I’m not, ah… I don’t know, actually.”

“You don’ know how it happened?”

“No, I-I know _how_ it happened, I’m just not sure, I mean I wasn’t, you know, I didn’t see what he was…” He petered off. He could feel himself blushing, but couldn’t stop it.

“He?”

Dean scrubbed his face with his hands. “My master,” he confessed.

“Oh.” They were both silent. Dean knew what Benny was thinking. It wasn’t unheard of for a master to punish a slave, but to leave marks deep enough to scar a Hunter?

Benny sat through a full minute of silence before standing up with a sigh. “You know,” he drawled, “Meg missed a pretty important step in your lesson.” He went to stand in front of the mirror.

“Oh?”

“Gotta get Master comfortable, first.”

“C-comfortable?”

“Can’t get nowhere while he’s tense, chief.”

“Master’s always tense,” Dean muttered, looking away.

“Used to be Meg who dealt with him when he got like that.”

“ _Meg?_ ” Dean gaped at Benny’s reflection in the mirror.

“She got you all fired up just now, chief, don’t you think she could do it?”

“Yeah, but I’m an _alpha,_ and you know how she smells.”

Benny chuckled. “I’m just sayin’, brother. Things used to be awful hard before you showed up.”

“Yeah well.” He looked away. “I don’t seem to be making things much better.”

“Let me help, brother. Tell me about the scars.”

Dean went to stand with Benny beside the mirror. He watched as Benny took a step back, and slowly put hands on his shoulders. His hands were wide and warm, and although he had obviously showered he still smelled like sated omega, and underneath that was the tempting rain-soaked scent of Castiel. He let himself relax in Benny’s hands.

“I dunno where to start,” he said truthfully.

“You were a guard?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about that, chief.”

“It was… good. Easy. I got to take the master to conferences and things. I was the only one who went, actually.” Benny’s hand smoothed along the back of his neck, across his caste mark, and he twitched.

“Take as long as you need, brother.”

“Nah it’s… it’s fine. It was a long time ago, you know.”

“Still gives you nightmares, though.”

“Yeah, well. The last part wasn’t so good.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginnin’ then, chief?”

“I was a guard,” he said again. Benny didn’t say anything.

He felt the memory sitting low in his belly. It was a living thing, dark and brooding. It was feeding off him, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to give a voice to it.

He sighed.

And began to talk.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Trying to write something naughty with a lady](https://68.media.tumblr.com/a05f12f326b8eb444857beb4b94ecc9e/tumblr_inline_ojs5ycgkb61qe1dsy_500.gif)


	15. The Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10,000 hits what the flippety fuck. I literally love you guys please never leave me. At this point I think I would just turn into dust without you.

A fresh wave of Castiel’s scent had Dean looking around, half expecting his master to be in the room. But it was only Benny, who still smelled like his night in Master Novak’s bed. Dean sighed, but let himself relax into the scent, drawing what comfort he could from it. The story of his life wasn’t long, but it wasn’t an easy one, either.

He began with the saleyards. It was where his new life had started, and it was where his old life had started, too.

“I’ve only ever been to the saleyards twice,” he said, “and the first time I was only there for a few days. There was a fire at the estate where I was born, and all the slaves got sent to the nearest place that could hold us. I don’t remember much of the fire, except someone told me after that both my parents had died in it. Mom ran inside to try and save Master, and Dad ran in after her.’ Benny had his hands on Dean’s shoulders, and though he hummed in sympathy, he didn’t stop kneading. Slaves tended to have short lives, anyway, and the loss of a parent was common. If not in death then merely in separation. Such was their lot.

“I don’t remember either of them very well,” Dean admitted. “I mean, I know she was a Hunter, obviously, but I can’t picture her face or anything. She musta been pretty special, though, if my dad went in after her. He was a Warrior, my dad. Big guy. I don’t remember much else about him except that. He could skin a rabbit, and he was big.

“Anyway there were a whole lot of us in the saleyards, and most of us were born on the estate so we’d never even seen saleyards before. I was… maybe seven or eight by then, I guess, but I was the only Hunter and I was a fairly decent shot already, and this Caretaker came through and asked if I could patrol and I said yes, and that was that, I had a new home. I became a guard. I lived out on the perimeter of the grounds, with the other guards, and they were a good group. We worked well together. They taught me how to fight. We were stationed at the first perimeter, way out from the house, and we lived there for, shit, _years,_ I guess. We got left to ourselves, mostly, and the only time we got called to the main house was when the master died and her son took over and we all had to swear loyalty to him.

“After that things got a bit mixed up. We started rotating the patrols a lot, so sometimes I was on the perimeter and sometimes I was up close. It was harder to make friends when the groups kept rotating. I guess that was the point. We couldn’t trust strangers. Every few months he had a tournament thing, too, and the guards fought each other to prove who was the best. It made us wary of each other. I had no chance at the fighting stuff or anything, not against all those Warriors, but I was the best shot by far, and that’s why he liked to have me close whenever he went into town. I stood behind his chair with a gun on my belt and glared at anyone who came close and Master _loved_ it. The other guards didn’t like it, much, because it meant more work for them when I was away, but they couldn’t really complain. Overall we had it good. We never got bad punishments or anything, either. We had our food rationed for misdemeanours, I think, but that was it. We had to be fight-ready, you know… Couldn’t be injured if we were on guard duty. But we were the lucky ones.”

“Who were the unlucky ones?” Benny asked, and Dean grimaced.

“The house slaves,” he answered. “Caretakers mostly. They never went out.” He rolled his left shoulder, and Benny’s hands moved to knead at it. “They were always indoors,” he continued, “and we thought it was a choice thing, you know. Like maybe Master really liked white skin or something, but we were ignoring things. Big things. One of the guys saw a pleasure slave through a window, chained to a bed. And once I swear I saw a gardener take off her glove and just for a second it looked like she was missing a finger. But we ignored it, because we weren’t seeing any of it first hand, right, so it was just easy to make it invisible.”

Benny didn’t say anything, and Dean looked at his face in the mirror, trying to gauge a reaction, but the omega’s expression was inscrutable. Dean sighed. Shut his eyes. Couldn’t shut out the next bit.

“Then one day, this little girl, I didn’t even know her name, she was so little, she stuck her hand out through a window as I was walking past, and begged me for some water. I had a bottle on my belt, always did, and I passed it through to her, and she drank the whole thing. There was water going down her chin, and getting on her dress, and I tried to tell her to slow down but I dunno, it was like she knew she was never going to touch it again or something. She was desperate for it. Trying to fit an ocean in her belly. And when the bottle was empty she pushed it back out of the window and begged me not to tell the master what she’d done, and I said I wouldn’t and I _didn’t_ , didn’t tell anyone about her, and then three days later my patrol was going past the same window so I peeked inside but there was no one there, just an empty bed and a blood stain on the wall.”

Benny’s hands paused, and Dean opened his eyes and he was in a room with Benny but the little girl was still looking at him, her eyes wide even in his memory.

“I was the only one who went out, you know, out of the compound, but I couldn’t… couldn’t _talk_ to anyone without the master seeing.”

Benny finally broke his silence. “You coulda gone to the cops,” he said quietly, but Dean shook his head.

“We had these tracker things, in our necks. Got them the second his mother died. We thought it was some security thing at the time but he knew where we were, every single second. We were all trapped and we hadn’t even realised it and there was something going on inside the house and we didn’t even know _what_ the problem was. Who could we tell? It was just us.” He took a shaky breath. “One of the guys eventually told Master that he wanted to return to the saleyards, and he told us he’d send help, but we never heard from him and no one ever turned up. We didn’t know what to do, and we didn’t know who to trust. So I uh… I borrowed some lipstick off one of the guards.”

Benny snorted, surprised, and Dean felt a wry smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

“She laughed, too. Told me ‘Antique Velvet’ was more my colour. Whatever the fuck that means.”

“What’d you do with the lipstick?”

“I used my shaving mirror, and I wrote ‘help’ on my chest every night.”

“Clever.”

“Not clever enough. Master only needed to go into town like once every week, and we were always together. He would’ve seen, you know. If I took my shirt off.”

Benny hummed, fingers still working.

“Eventually the lipstick ran out.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped. “So I… I got the patrol knife. And when everyone else was asleep I cut ‘help’ into my back. Had to put my shirt in my mouth to stop myself shouting.” He tried for a smile but it came out as a grimace. “Every night I recut the same letters until finally Master took me out for a conference. I parked a block away so we’d have to walk. I was… I was walking behind him, you know, on the street, and there were people everywhere, not even looking at us, just a slave following a master, but I pulled the back of my shirt down, and people started going past us twice, turning around to look at our faces.” He shrugged. “But he smelled the blood, I guess, and forced me to take off my shirt, and when he saw what I’d done he just, I dunno, went ballistic or something. Went crazy. Used his belt, I think. Or maybe something else. I didn’t see. Could’ve been a crowbar for all I knew by the end of it. Got me 27 times before the police finally arrived.”

Benny’s hands were still.

“I woke up in the saleyards,” he finished lamely. “Some cops came round to ask me questions but, you know… I didn’t have much. There was a girl, maybe. There were slaves missing, possibly. There might have been some blood… The cops were masters, too. I dunno if they even believed me. Eventually they stopped asking.” Dean let his eyes slip shut. “I still don’t know what happened to them,” he confessed. “The Caretakers. If they got out.” He felt his throat tighten, then relax. “I hope the little girl got out, though. I hope she got to see the ocean. Got to see all the water there is out there.”

They stood silently in front of the mirror. Dean watched a dust mote spin idly in a sunbeam.

“Say something.”

Benny coughed, looking pale. “Not much to say, chief.”

Their reflections made eye contact. Dean had replayed the story thousands of times in his head, but repeating it out loud was different. His stomach ached, but he wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad ache.

A voice spoke from outside the door. “You were lucky to survive.” Castiel stepped into the room, looking at Dean with an unreadable expression.

Benny immediately dropped his head while Dean raised his.

“Master Novak,” Benny murmured deferentially.

Dean felt himself pale, wondering how much of his pitiful story his master had heard. He surely… He had surely heard the last bit. How he had betrayed his master. He tried to catch a glimpse of Castiel’s expression, but if he felt anything about the story his face wasn’t showing it.

“Perhaps that’s why your record was blank,” Castiel said, and it took Dean a moment to realise his master was addressing him.

“Huh?” he said articulately, and then quickly added, “Sir”

“It was erased. For your safety.”

“My… my safety, sir?

“So your old master couldn’t find you.”

Dean didn’t have an answer for that one, but Castiel was done with him anyway.

“Benny, please tell Meg to come to my room at sunset tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” the omega said quickly, looking sideways at Dean. Castiel nodded to himself before turning to leave. Dean was suddenly struck by the inopportune timing of his arrival. It was the first time their master had ever come down to the slave rooms himself, and it just happened to be as Dean was retelling the story of his previous master.

They had the room to themselves again, and Dean turned to Benny.

“He asked you to get the story from me, didn’t he?”

Benny didn’t try to lie, at least. “He’s my master too, chief. He wanted to know about the scars.”

Dean felt hot, and then very cold.

“The scars,” he said slowly, “are none of his business.” He felt his head lowering to cover his throat. A snarl was forming behind his tongue, and his gums had started to itch. Castiel knew. He _knew_. Castiel knew that Dean had once betrayed a master— _his_ master. Castiel would never trust him again. He choked on a sob, and then let it out but it wasn’t a sob, after all, it was a howl.

“What have you done?” he bellowed, and Benny’s face had gone pale but Dean couldn’t see it. His inner alpha roared.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Castiel hasn’t left his pleasure slaves alone with an angry alpha…
> 
> PhD update: You know my thesis is going well because we made it through a whole chapter without even mentioning sex :o


	16. The Mansion

“What have you done?” he howled.

Benny took another step back and Dean didn’t even try to wrestle with the snarling alpha inside him that was stinking out the room with sudden rage.

Benny raised his hands. “Easy, brother,” he cautioned, putting the bed between them.

 _He’s scared of me,_ Dean realised, and a part of him knew he had to contain his inner alpha, quickly. The other part didn’t care. He wanted to hurt something, was well aware that the _something_ was Castiel. He wanted to scream and rage and most of all he wanted to have something soft in his hands that he could scream _at,_ but Castiel was gone and Benny was here.

He took a step forward, and part of him knew that it wasn’t Benny’s fault, not really, but the other part was losing control and wanted— _needed_ —to have an omega beneath him. He had held something precious, once. He had held Castiel in all the ways that mattered. Had kissed him, too. He had seen the shape that Castiel’s thighs made around his waist. He had tasted the sweat that collected in the hollow of his master’s neck, and he would never get to taste again. It had been weeks since he had last felt anything other than that bone-deep loss, and he had _Had. Enough._

The reasonable part of his brain was losing the fight. It wasn’t Benny’s fault that Castiel didn’t trust him, but Dean was more than willing to blame him anyway.

He smelled rather than saw as Meg arrived, but her presence didn’t slow him down. Benny had stopped backing away too, and had lowered his hands.

“I want to be good,” Dean snarled, and it wasn’t what he’d meant to say but it wasn’t a lie, either.

“I know, brother. Jus’ relax.”

He tried to listen, but the war in his brain wasn’t acting on reason.

“Master told you to ask about my scars.”

“Calm down, now.”

“He doesn’t trust me.”

“He trusts you, chief.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it. He snarled, and leapt.

He found himself sprawled over the bed, halfway between where he had been standing and where Benny was staring at him sadly. His mouth started watering, and where before there had only been white-hot rage, now there was something else. He was inexplicably hard.

 _Pheremones,_ said the quickly fading voice in his head, and the part of Dean that was still thinking logically was overcome with relief, even as the molten core in his belly struggled against it. He felt the scent like a blanket on a humid day, covering every inch of him. He panted and tried to reach for the omega, but Benny had taken another step back. Dean reached again. He didn’t know if he was reaching out to fight or fuck. Both, probably. The smell was in the back of his throat. He curved himself into it.

Meg walked forward and chestnuts joined Benny’s earthy tones. Dean gulped at the air, and his head flopped to the side. His limbs felt like they were weighed down, and his eyes were half closed, though he wasn’t tired at all.

“I just want to be good,” he said again. His teeth were bared in a silent snarl, the only part of his body that wasn’t relaxing, but he meant it. He wanted to mean it. He breathed at their mingled scents, tried not to fight against the pull of them.

“You’re doin’ great, chief.”

“Lucky us pleasure slaves aren’t as defenceless as we look,” Meg added.

This was why alphas weren’t supposed to live with omegas, he knew. This was why he was supposed to be separated. He wasn’t dumb enough to think that it was actually Benny he had ben mad at, yet he had tried to attack him.

The pheromones washed over him like a wave, and he let them wash the anger away, too. He didn’t want it.

“Good boy,” Meg crooned, and Dean narrowed his eyes at her.

“Really, sister? Antagonise the alpha while he’s hoppin’?”

“Oh, we can deal with him, can’t we, Benny?” She put a hand on Dean’s cheek, dangerously close to his teeth, but Dean leaned into the touch. He could smell chestnuts at her wrist. “You know how I love to take down a big, bad alpha,” she crooned, stroking a thumb against his skin.

“I let you take me down,” Dean growled, but he leaned further into her touch. His mouth went lax as the snarl fell off his face.

“Yes you did,” she said, like she was addressing a child. “And that’s why you’re a good boy.” She tapped him lightly on the tip of his nose, and let go. Dean tried to chase her hand but his body was still a few tonnes too heavy, and he succeeded only in slumping further onto the bed. He groaned, and shoved his hips into the mattress. He heard Meg giggle and Benny grunt.

“If we let you up, will you attack us?”

Dean thought about it. His gums were itching, as though his alpha teeth had been moments from pressing out. He didn’t think he would need them, though.

“No,” he said.

The effect was immediate. The haze in his mind faded away, and his body took on its normal weight again. He sat up as Meg went to open a window, and put his face in his hands.

“Shit,” he said to his palms.

“Wanna talk about it?” Benny asked carefully.

“No.”

“Want me to teach you how to please Master?”

“No.”

“Come on, chief. I ain’t no liar. I said I would and I will.”

“Master won’t want me. Not now.”

Meg snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, getting onto the bed behind Dean, though thankfully not touching him. He didn’t think his cartwheeling emotions could handle her touch on top of everything else.

“Master ain’t evil,” Benny drawled. “He’ll understand why you did it.”

Meg must have been listening to his story, too, because she didn’t ask what they were talking about. “Besides,” she said, “if he gets angry about it he’ll just stomp around his rooms for a few hours and get himself all worked up. And then who do you think he’ll be calling?”

“Fuck off,” he huffed, but he didn’t mean it. Castiel _wasn’t_ evil. Thinking otherwise was a disservice to him. Castiel had saved him from the saleyards, and he was trying to save others an even worse fate.

“And when you’re called to his room,” Meg continued, pretending he hadn’t spoken, “you’ll have so many new tricks to show off, won’t you?”

“It’s useless,” he moped. “Master won’t ever let me. He’s still punishing me.”

“No need to punish yourself, then, chief.” Neither of the omegas knew exactly what had happened in New York, only that Master Novak had come back angry, and Dean had come back empty.

“Besides,” said Meg, leaning in close to whisper against his ear, “I’ve found that the best way to beg for forgiveness is on your knees.”

Dean shoved at her, finally cracking a smile. “Stop it, you tease.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“No!”

“Come on now, brother. No need to be difficult.”

“He doesn’t want me like that! Especially not now.”

“Maybe not right this second,” Meg crooned. “But soon. Maybe in a week. Maybe in a month. And when he’s ready you can show him all the pleasure you’ve been bottling up inside you.”

Dean actually let out a laugh at that one. “Bottling up inside me?”

“Well, you don’t share it with us. We have to assume it’s somewhere in there.” She poked him in the belly, and then tickled his side as he swatted at her.

“Fine!” he yelped. “Fine!”

“Tha’s more like it,” Benny drawled.

Meg laughed, and when Dean looked over she was all teeth. The cat that got the cream. “This _will_ be fun,” she giggled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than anticipated. How _dare_ it.
> 
> (Sorry for the wait.)


	17. The Mansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OoohooOOOh man, you guys. I am SO sorry for the wait. I promise I never stopped thinking of you. This chapter was my ACHILLES. Shit got REAL over in PhD land. Your feedback is the only reason I didn’t just say FUCK IT after the tenth attempt. And (once again) I gotta dole out the feels to [GertieCraign](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GertieCraign) the amazing beta giving me advice like some kind of pornography life-line, and [Djtmusings](https://durenjtmusings.tumblr.com/) for the love when i needed it most.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE the added trigger warning above! If you want some spoilery spoilers on what to expect in the chapter, skip to the bottom notes. (Memo to self: cure writer’s block by writing violence? Probably not a good habit to fall into.)

ONE MONTH AGO

_His white-knuckled fingers were begging to bury themselves in something warm and alive. Preferably screaming. The alpha Angel at his feet was kneeling with its hands shackled to the base of the throne. There was blood in its hair already, where he hadn’t bothered to stop himself from lashing out. The tangy metal salt-scent did nothing to calm the twitching of his fingers._

_“I told you to bring me the omega’ss head.” His tongue caught on his silver tooth in the familiar hiss._

_“Please, Master! I tried! I swear! Please, p-please master! He was protected! God, I didn’t… I, I swear, Master! There was a Hunter, and a crowded bar—”_

_He slapped the slave with the back of his hand. Felt a tooth dislodge somewhere in its mouth, though the Angel was smart enough not to spit it out. He grabbed at its neck and yanked it closer, holding the slave between his thighs so it could see the tent of his pants. He made no attempt to hide how the Angel’s blood aroused him._

_“You’ll ssuffer for your mistake,” he promised coldly. “I want the omega masster dead.”_

 

 

NOW

It was the little girl, again. The Artist from the window. She had her hand thrown out to him and he was searching his belt for a water bottle that wasn’t there.

“I’m coming,” said a voice beside him, and it was Castiel, of course it was. And Castiel was a master, not a slave, but he had golden wings spilling out from the backs of his shoulders like an honest to god Angel, a real one, and there was a glass in his hand that was frosty with chilled water. Angel-Cas held the glass out, and the little girl reached for it, mouth wide with a silent sob. Her fingers were almost on it but then a figure reached out from the shadows and yanked her back, holding firm to her elbow.

“Please, sir,” she begged, still reaching even as Castiel tried to give her the glass again. The shadowy figure tugged, and the glass slipped and shattered.

Castiel made a grab for her hand, but she wisped through his fingers like fog. Dean could only watch as the girl was pulled away. He tried to follow, but his legs weren’t working properly. His feet were muddied and vague. Every step forward seemed to take her further away. “I want to help you!” Castiel yelled out, but she was already so far, reaching back for them still. She was almost out of sight.

At the edge of Dean’s vision, the shadowy figure turned around, and he already knew who it was but his heart broke anyway when his own face sneered back at him, dragging the girl away from Castiel. The dream ended as the girl disappeared over an invisible horizon, still begging for water.

Benny was already awake when he opened his eyes. Dean could smell his own scent in the air, nightmare-heavy, and he muttered an apology as he went to open a window. It was October, and the morning was frosty. His sweat cooled immediately, though his skin felt flushed. Benny came to lean against the sill next to him, and they said nothing as they looked at the last of the stars, slowly disappearing as the sky lightened. Benny’s breath fogged out in mirror to Dean’s own. It had only been a week since the incident about the scars, but the temperature change had happened quickly.

“Have you told Master Novak abou’ the dreams, chief?”

“No.” Dean paused. “Have you?”

“Naw,” Benny confessed. “But you should. Master can help.”

“It’s not Master’s problem.”

“Sure it is. You’re his slave, same as he’s your master.”

“If that was true then I’d be in his bedroom now, ‘stead of Meg.”

“Master’s just givin’ you space, chief.”

Dean scoffed, and backed away from the window. His limbs felt tight and itchy, and there was sweat still in his hair. Seven days, and Castiel hadn’t called for him once. If that was called “giving space” then Dean was spaced enough.

He sat on the floor with his feet together and his knees out like butterfly wings, letting gravity stretch the insides of his thighs, which were twitching with dreamed adrenaline. Benny stayed at the window, enjoying the dark gardens in the few minutes before sunrise. At the last moment he turned away, and the sunlight trickled into the room instead of on his face. The walls turned yellow and Dean tried not to think about Castiel, golden-winged and holy, spilling light like the sun.

Benny sat opposite Dean, and mirrored the butterfly pose, using his toes to push Dean’s feet further into his body, increasing the stretch.

Both the omegas had started to insist on a stretching routine in the morning and at night. Dean had asked only to learn some blowjob skills, but Meg maintained that neither of them could teach him anything until he was flexible like a real pleasure slave.

He stretched one leg forward, and hooked an ankle over his knee. The muscle at the back of his thigh tightened and relaxed, already showing more give than last week. It was very obvious what Meg’s stretches were designed to focus on.

“So,” Benny drawled, copying Dean, “you gonna tell me why you’re thirstin’ to get on your knees for the master?”

Dean shrugged. “S’my job, isn’t it?”

Benny raised an eye. “Not many alphas’d say the same.”

“Do I need a reason? You do it already.”

“I’m a pleasure slave,” Benny retorted.

“So am I.”

“Nah, chief. You an alpha.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t start on that again. I just want to give him the same as you can.”

“Gonna start steppin’ on my turf soon, chief.”

Dean snorted. “As if I could ever keep up.” Castiel called one of them up to his room two days out of three. No way he could keep up with that kind of demand, though the alpha in his belly raised its head to point out that it would like to try.

They switched to the other leg. Benny scratched his chin idly, with his elbow on his raised knee. “So tha’s really all it is, chief? Just wanna do what we do? Get some job security?”

Dean’s dream resurfaced, and for a moment he saw the little girl in the window, getting dragged away before Castiel could help her.

“Forgiveness,” he murmured. “That would be nice too, I guess.”

“For you or him?” Benny asked.

“Uh… well, me?” _Why would Master need to be forgiven?_

Benny twisted his body to the side, elongating the stretch. “He asked about you the other day,” he said casually, still scratching his chin.

“He did?”

“Wanted to know if you was alright.” Benny eyed him “I think he’s feelin’ pretty hangdog about gettin’ you to tell me about your last master.”

Dean winced. “Did you, ah… tell him? About the… y’know.” _How I tried to attack you._

“Course not. No need for it.”

“Thanks, man.”

“So you’re not doin’ this to show you forgive him?”

“He doesn’t… I don’t… I forgive him, Benny.”

Benny got up, stretching his arms above his head. “You should probably tell him that.”

\-------------

The opportunity to talk to his master never arose. Another week passed, and still Castiel ignored him. During the day he went on long business meetings, taking no one except his guards, and at night he called one of the omegas to his room, leaving Dean downstairs to clench his fists in silence.

He started going to the gym at night, so he wouldn’t have to hear someone else being called away. “I could make you feel so good,” he said out loud, but the room was empty and his words echoed back distorted.

He made promises to himself.

Fifty pushups, and Castiel would walk through the door.

A ten-minute sprint, and he would get called for tonight.

One extra pound, and his master would notice him.

When he was too tired to lift another weight, he trudged back to the bedroom. Benny was reading. Again. And Meg was comparing lipsticks in the mirror.

“Do you realise how predictable you are?” he asked. Meg eyed him in the mirror with a smirk. Her lips were such a violent shade of red that her smile looked bloody. 

“Wanna try something fun?” her reflection purred.

“Uh…?”

“Nothing outrageous,” she promised in a way that made Dean think it would definitely be outrageous. “Just a little stress relief.”

“Um… _why?”_

“It’s been two weeks since you were with Master… Can’t a girl show a little concern?”

He rolled his eyes. “I can take care of business by myself, thanks.”

She rolled her eyes right back at him. “If you’re calling it ‘business,’ then you’re doing it wrong, little alpha, and besides… I brought something to practice with.”

She rummaged under her pillow for a moment and then unwrapped a zucchini with a smirk. Dean laughed uncertainly, looking to Benny for backup, but the other omega still had his nose in _The True Histories: Volume XIV_.

Meg giggled, and Dean turned back in time to see her coy tongue dart out from between the red-red lips to lick the zucchini in one long stripe, her eye on him the whole time. And yeah, it had been two weeks since Dean had last been inside his master, but he hadn’t actually climaxed since New York, so it shouldn’t have surprised anyone when a hint of alpha interest permeated the room.

“Wanna try?” Meg crooned. “For research purposes only, of course.” She pursed her lips to kiss the tip of the zucchini.

Which was, of course, the exact moment that Ellen decided to whisk into the room. “Hunter, you’re needed upstai—” She caught sight of Meg, and her jaw dropped.

For once, the housekeeper didn’t seem to have a single thing to say.

 _We’ve done it,_ thought Dean. _We’ve finally broken her._

Her mouth closed, and then opened again, but nothing came out.

“You don’ even wanna know what happened to the pumpkin that went missin’ last week,” Benny drawled, without looking away from his book.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW Spoilers: Referenced torture in the first italicised section.
> 
> I know, I know, a whole chapter without Cas in it, but don't worry friends, I’ll be updating again THIS WEEK. I won’t leave you stranded ever again. (... right?)
> 
> Geeky side note: zucchini are technically fruits. Even geekier side note: they are actually technically berries. Even geekier geeky side note: [ask me about the bees](https://68.media.tumblr.com/bdaae24c5341560450e2c4015dbf1dbd/tumblr_okswnwhDqV1uhsa09o1_500.gif)


	18. The Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Bubbles here to remind you all that I'm giving each and every one of you a hug for not bailing on my weird little AU yet <3
> 
> Triggery spoileries in the notes

TWO DAYS AGO

_He prowled back and forth, clenching and reclenching his fists. The Angel gurgled a scream. There was blood in its lungs already._

_“Don’t you dare die,” he snarled at it. He flipped the scalpel once, twice. Refrained from simply cutting the carotid. The hot rush of blood would be good, achingly good, but not gratifying in the same way as drawn-out punishment. His temper had killed slaves outright before, and he didn’t plan on a repeat. He needed the Angel alive for as long as possible. He needed the screams to motivate the rest of the slaves. The other master, that omega whore, had jeopardised his attempts to replenish the workforce and the current lot had to be worked until they dropped._

_And by the time that happened the omega master would be dead anyway._

_He grinned, and flipped the scalpel again. The next assassin wouldn’t fail him._

 

NOW

Castiel had been gone all day, and the stress must have been bad because he had called ahead to ask for Dean to wait for him upstairs. It took Ellen ten minutes to tell him this, though, since she was too busy ranting about scandalised vegetables to an unrepentant Meg, who had been deepthroating a zucchini to the sound of Benny’s cackling as Dean had hurried from the room.

He knew the route to Castiel’s room by heart, now, anyway. The mansion was big, but so much of it was empty, and the haphazard design was easier to understand when so much was closed off. It had taken no time at all to memorise the way to the bedrooms, the kitchen, and the gym, though Dean had since mapped every other room in the building. The place could easily hold two dozen more people.

Not for the first time, he wondered if Castiel had any family.

 _Master business isn’t slave business,_ he berated himself, and hurried up the stairs.

He automatically knocked at the bedroom’s great double doors, and then sheepishly let himself into the empty room, looking around as he did. The bedsheets were pulled tight and nothing stirred the curtains. He rubbed his bare arms and looked around. Should he… prepare the room, somehow? Get himself hard? The last time he had been here had been… unenjoyable, to say the least. Castiel had only ever wanted the alpha part of him, and Dean had been guilty and grieving. He still was, he knew, but Castiel shouldn’t have to suffer through that emotional roller coaster with him. He could make his master feel good again, he knew it.

He toed the plush carpet curiously, and imagined his knees sinking into it. Right here in the middle of the room, with no chairs or beds… nothing nearby for Castiel to hold onto. Nothing except Dean. Castiel would have to put his hands on Dean’s shoulders, or maybe the top of his head. He was pretty sure his inner alpha might have something to say on the subjugated position, but he was also pretty sure that he didn’t care. He wanted to kneel here in the middle of the room more than he wanted to tower over his omega master.

Or, instead of the floor, maybe on the bed, with Castiel’s arms thrown wide and his head rolling back.

Or maybe in the shower.

So many possibilities.

He’d have to be fast, of course. If Castiel was as strung-out as he usually was when he called for Dean, then he’d be after one thing only.

_I’ll rip the clothes off him and get on my knees before he can order anything else._

The room had been aired while Castiel was away, and it didn’t smell like anything. Grinning, he grabbed at the pillows and rubbed his face against them, letting his alpha scent fill the bedroom. He did the same thing with the curtains, which felt velvety and heavy on his skin, and fell back into place as soon as he dropped them. He cupped himself through his boxers and kept picturing places to take his master. Against the wall. Against the window. In the shower. The smell of his arousal would keep his master distracted, he hoped. Would answer that anxious strung-out need for long enough so that Dean could get his mouth on him.

With a grin, he slid open the door to Castiel’s wardrobe, and stepped right in amongst the suits, still palming himself through the boxers. There were half a dozen identical trench coats, just like the one he had thrown into the crowd in New York. He raised an eyebrow at them, considered putting one on, but it would just be another piece of clothing to take off later, so he let them be.

Behind some crisp-laundered shirts was a hanger full of ties. They were exquisitely soft in his fingers and predominantly black and red. Power colours. He rubbed them on his face too, so that his scent would be right under Castiel’s nose the next time his master wore them.

 _Good luck ignoring me for another fortnight,_ he sniggered.

At the back was a dark blue tie, and it had lighter thin stripes that, he realised, were the exact shade of his master’s eyes. The material was so fine he could barely feel it against his fingers. With a grin, he slipped it around his neck, making sure it sat right against his caste mark where the scent was strongest. He wasn’t sure of the correct way to knot it—he was far more proficient at taking them off, not putting them on—so he just did an overhand with both ends, letting the longer side trail down to just below his belly button, tickling silkily. The knot felt weird at the base of his throat, and he wondered how alphas usually wore them so comfortably.

He fingered the fabric distractedly as he shut the wardrobe, and sidled over to Castiel’s desk, with the vague intention of getting his scent on the huge leather chair. When Castiel came home he could push his master into it and drop to his knees, taking his position on the floor.

He’d seen Benny take Castiel’s pants off with only his teeth, but he would save that trick for later. He had no illusions about his skills. There was no way he could beat the pleasure slaves at this. But, as Meg kept telling him, there was no such thing as a bad blowjob.

He touched the desk reverently, and imagined sitting Castiel atop it. It smelled like pine, weirdly familiar, though it was dark enough to be mahogany. A corner of paper poked out from the lip of a drawer, and he pulled it out without thinking. It was an invoice, or a request for one, or something. Big words had been scrawled across it.

_Request denied. You’ll have to do better than that._

_Crowley._

A reply had been jotted beneath it, but later scratched out with such ferocity that there was a little tear in the paper. Beneath the scribble Dean could just make out the word ‘ _FUCK’_ written four times over. He quickly put it down.

The next paper was a table of figures that made no sense, and the page after as well. There were a few stapled documents with text so crammed there was hardly any white. Curious, he dug further back into the drawer and felt the edge of a notebook that had been jammed into the corner. He pulled it out by the spine, trying not to dislodge the scraps and notes hanging from it. A fragment of colour drifted out, and it took Dean a moment to realise it was a flower, a pressed one, so fragile and thin that it almost floated in mid air. It was a vinca, perfectly preserved. The petals were like shards of light, infinitely delicate. He slipped it back into the notebook, and flipped to a random page. There were leaves, dried and brittle. Another flower that looked kind of like a daisy but with a smaller centre. _Bloodroot,_ he thought to himself. Used to treat asthma. There were a few leaves that could’ve belonged to marigold, too. For headaches. He touched one with a finger so light it was almost reverent. He had forgotten that he knew these plants.

He had the sudden memory of being told how to crush the bloodroot petals, and he knew without seeing that it was his father who had taught him. He tried to chase the memory but it was gone as soon as it came. He kept flicking. Some of the flowers he knew, and some he didn’t.

_Why does Castiel have them?_

The next page held a tiny receipt, only a few lines long.

 _Caretaker Meg_ , it said at the top and, above that, the slave identification number. Then: _Omega._ _Primary division: pleasurer._ Someone had written a careful note on the reverse side. _Orphaned age two. No records._

The next page was Benny’s. _Omega. Primary division: gardener. Secondary division: pleasurer_. And, in tidy handwriting that Dean realised belonged to his master: _Found wandering in the desert. No records._

There was one for Ellen, too. _Found heavily pregnant beside body of mate, age nineteen. Daughter Jo born two weeks later. No records._ Then a whole reef of Warriors, mostly alphas, and then gardeners, all omega, and all with _No records_ written in a tidy hand at the bottom.

He knew what the next note would be, but it still surprised him when he saw his own name on the tiny saleyard receipt. _Hunter Dean._ There were no divisions but, just like the others, this receipt noted that he had no records. Castiel had also written: _History of violence visible except in ~~green~~ eyes and hands._

What an odd thing to notice, he thought dazedly. He looked at his own hands and realised that his master had been right. There were no scars on them. Whenever he looked at himself he was so used to noticing the white and pink reminders of his failures that he never seemed to see the unmarked flesh, but Castiel had.

 _They’re not scarred because I never started fights_. His forearms were marked from defending attacks, and his knuckles were always bruised, but he had never hit at someone with the intention of killing. His hands had been scraped and bruised plenty, but the scars that came from deeper injuries had been elsewhere.

 _He noticed my hands,_ he realised dazedly. He looked down at his fist. It was clean, and there were no scratches or smears of blood. He hadn’t had an opportunity to get himself beaten up in months. He touched the receipt again.

 _Is this what he sees?_ Dean wondered. He tried to imagine another master noticing his hands.

For some reason, the little line through ‘green’ made him smile. Something shivered in his belly. A warm, wriggly feeling that he had no name for. Despite everything… the scars, and the fact that he was a Hunter… he had somehow found himself a master that noticed his hands.

A car door slammed from somewhere outside, and he jumped, closing the notebook with a snap. He heard Ellen say something that sounded like “Welcome home.” He immediately moved to cram the notebook back into the drawer. If Master caught him snooping…

There was a sharp _crack_ from outside, followed by a second.

The notebook slipped from his fingers and

the world

slowed

down.

He saw himself as though from a distance. The weight of his body rolling onto the balls of his feet. His naked toes gripping the carpet as he went from stationary to sprinting in the space of a heartbeat. His hand already reaching out.

He was halfway down the stairs before his legs realised they were moving. His feet didn’t touch the foyer as he flew across it.

He had heard those cracks before. He had made them, too, once upon a time.

It was the sound a silenced gun made when shot from a distance.

_Master._

_Master._

He smelled the blood first.

_Master._

The front door opened in slow motion, spreading light like spilled wine. Dean saw the scene like a freeze frame from a movie. The car door hanging open. Spiderwebs of cracks spreading out from a tiny hole in one window. Ellen’s mouth open on a scream. A guard sprinting into the night.

And Castiel, lying on the ground like a corpse.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: first paragraph again has some minor and implied torture. Everything after the italics is fine.


	19. The Foyer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggery spoilers in the end notes

-Quick!  
-Get the Hunter off him!  
-Get the, no, over there—  
_-Move it,_  
-Walsh, Stace, cover us.  
-Someone take his arm!  
-Not you, Hunte—hey!  
-GET THAT DOOR OPEN!  
-Where’s Reg?  
-He took BravoTwo to follow the—  
-Move, move!  
-Get in! Steve, cover em.  
-MOVE!  
-Ellen, hurry up—  
-Lock the door behind us!  
-Hunter, back the _fuck_  
-Is that door closed? Get something in front of it—yeah, that’ll do.

_CRASH_

-Stace, the windows.  
-Put him next to the stairs.  
-Yes, Hunter, I can see that he’s hurt.  
-Are those windows secured?  
-Protect and—  
-Set up a perimeter. Around him, around him.  
-Someone take the Hunter down, I swear to—

Dean bared his teeth as someone—a Warrior—advanced. Castiel was on the foyer floor, head rolling uselessly, and Dean’s inner alpha was clawing at the walls of his stomach, trying to get closer. He knew if he breathed in then the smell of Castiel’s blood would unleash that uncontrollable part of him. The snarling alpha in his belly would attempt to rip through the obstacle between Dean and his master.

_Master, Master. My master, my omega._

A part of him knew that Castiel wasn’t _his,_ but that part was far away, and only getting further with every second that Castiel lay unmoving on the floor.

“Move,” he said to the Warrior, trying to push past. The Warrior shoved him back down. “I can help, _move._ ” The Warrior growled and raised his fists, clearly not at all against the idea of taking Dean out by force, if necessary.

Castiel twitched, and made a sound like a balloon losing air, halfway between a groan and a sigh. The Warrior blinked toward the sound and fast as lightning Dean punched him in the stomach, dodged sideways, and rolled forward, scrambling up to his master’s left side. He barely made it three feet before another alpha grabbed the tie— _shit, he was still wearing Castiel’s tie_ —and yanked him backwards.

He was distantly grateful that he had used an overhand knot, so the tie didn’t constrict around his neck, but that was no consolation as he went ass over, skidding a few yards away with the force of the Warrior’s throw. When he looked back up the guy—Steve, he guessed—stood between Castiel and himself, shoulders hunched and chin lowered.

“Warrior,” Dean growled, “stand down. I can help. I’m good with injuries.”

“Back off, Hunter, this ain’t your turf.” The Warriors had set up a loose circle around Castiel’s limp form, facing out. Two of them had knives. With all the adrenaline in the air they were resorting to basic Warrior instinct—protection—but Castiel didn’t need an armed guard, he was barely moving.

“Help him!” Dean roared, and when no one moved he snarled, long and loud, then breathed in to snarl again.

He was instantly assailed with such a barrage of scents that he almost knocked himself out, Warrior or no. The alpha-heavy stench was so palpable he could almost taste it, and he resisted the urge to gag. But now that he was concentrating on it, he started to discern individual scents. Steve, sweat pouring off him like rain, and the young one, Stacey, breathing hard and shaking. Two more Warriors, alpha as well, stinking like duty and adrenaline and shock. And then, beneath all that… _blood._

He spun around.

The blood wasn’t coming from Castiel. It was coming from…

“Ellen!” he shouted, sliding to his knees at her side. She was sitting against the wall next to the door, wide eyed and so pale that her pupils looked like black dots on paper. One hand was clutching at the huge bookcase that had been pulled across the door, and the other was white-knuckled on her thigh. Her fingers glinted red.

“Hunter,” she said, calm as you please, and her voice sounded normal but when her eyes tried to find his face they missed. He put his hands over hers, felt the hot rush of her blood.

“You’re hurt,” he gasped, and then, louder, “Get some bandages.” He didn’t have to turn around to hear that none of the Warriors had moved. For the briefest flash of a second he imagined attacking, taking them out one by one in fury, but that would take time he didn’t have. He breathed in one last time, took a mental snapshot of the room, then sprinted towards the kitchens.

 _Master’s fine,_ he reassured himself. _Just unconscious. Focus on Ellen._

There were hand towels in the top cupboard, and he grabbed the whole stack, leaving red tacky smears on the stainless-steel counters. He prayed that the chef, Jo, was out, and wouldn’t find her mother’s blood in the kitchen before someone had a chance to clean it. From the freezer he grabbed a handful of ice, wrapping it in one of the towels, and didn’t bother closing the door behind him as he sprinted back to the foyer.

No one had moved. The Warriors were still in their defensive positions, and Ellen was still sitting against the wall, her face somehow paler than before. Dean threw the ice towel at one of the alphas. “Put that on his head!” he barked, already skidding to his knees at Ellen’s side. He folded one of the towels into a thick bandage, and then pulled her hand away from her leg, taking only the briefest moment to check the damage. The blood pulsed out in time with her heartbeat, but the wound itself wasn’t so large. A ragged slice at the very side of her thigh. Half an inch to the left and it would have missed her completely. Half an inch to the right and it would have lodged in the flesh. “Dunno whether you’re lucky or cursed,” he muttered, but she didn’t reply. When he covered the gash with the crude bandage she gasped, but didn’t faint. He put one more towel on top of the first, then grabbed her hands and positioned them back on top. “Press down,” he ordered gently, pushing. “It’s not so bad. You’re gonna be fine.” He used more of the towels to make a pillow, then helped Ellen onto her side. “Doing so well,” he told her as she groaned. “Doing great, Ellen. Going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Shut up, I’m not an invalid. _Shut up._ ” Dean felt the tension leave his shoulders.

“Sure thing, boss. S’long as you keep pressure on it, kay?”

“M-Master?” Ellen asked between clenched teeth.

“He’s fine,” Dean hushed. “No one’s bleeding ‘cept you. He just got knocked out, that’s all.”

Ellen tried to push up, but then gasped and fell back. “H-help him,” she panted wetly.

He put the rest of the towels in easy reach, and gave her a last reassuring smile. Only then did he turn away. The Warriors stared back at him, flexing their muscles. The two with knives tightened their grip. Dean could smell their nervous energy and alpha anger, even from the other side of the foyer. They were still high on adrenaline, but with no obvious danger they were turning to the only threat in the room—another alpha. He tried not to blame them. Warriors weren’t thinkers. They acted. And they were acting now how they’d been trained to. He just needed to give them something different to focus on.

“Okay,” he said calmly, closing the distance by a few feet. He noticed that the bundle of ice was lying uselessly on the floor. He didn’t let his outrage spill over into his scent. “Everything’s fine, okay? Nothing dangerous in here.”

“There’s an assassin on the grounds,” Steve barked.

“Sure,” Dean agreed easily, “but your buddies are taking care of it. Now let me take care of him.” He indicated Castiel’s prone form.

“We hold position until the threat is neutralised,” the biggest guy said, as though he was reading off an instruction manual.

Dean barely stopped himself from growling. Of all the godawful times for Warrior posturing… “Look,” he said, on the precipice of calm. “He’s taken a hit to the head, no doubt as one of you fine idiots knocked him to the ground?” He let the silence stretch for long enough to make his point. Ellen made a soft noise behind him. “But if it was hard enough to knock him out, then it was hard enough to cause damage. He needs ice on it.”

The Warriors looked at each other, uncertain. The biggest guy lowered his knife a fraction. Dean took another step forward, sensing victory.

But when had his life ever been that easy?

Castiel groaned, twitching slightly, and chose that moment to open his eyes. It should have made Dean giddy with relief, but even from halfway across the room he could see the beads of sweat breaking cold across his master’s pale face, and the unfocused shifting of his eyes. Almost definitely a concussion—he had seen a few at the saleyards—but instead of soothing voices and calm scents Castiel was waking to a room that smelled like blood, adrenaline, and alpha fear.

The smell of omega distress was immediate, and powerful, and though Dean was far enough away to remain unaffected, the Warriors were standing _right there_. They turned to Castiel instantly, their instincts readying them for a fight, their scents leaking right into Castiel’s vulnerable breathing space.

Dean watched helplessly as his master dug confused fingers into his hair, tugging roughly, barely awake. _Look at me,_ Dean begged silently. _You’re okay._

Castiel looked up as though he’d heard, and though his eyes were glassy their gazes locked. Dean had no idea what expression was on his own face, but Castiel’s was such a torrent of confusion and pain that it was really no surprise what happened next.

Dean saw his master mouth the word “Alpha,” but the sound that came next was not a word.

Castiel _whined_ for him. A pitiful, omega distress call that shot across his already frayed nerves like electricity. And where before his inner alpha had been all concerned energy and fear, now there was nothing, _nothing,_ but the need to get close. To hold, and protect, and touch and touch and touch. He felt the need like a physical ache, a pull right in his gut where the alpha part of him was already lurching forward.

And yeah, Castiel had made that noise at _him,_ but there were four other alphas in the room, equally as susceptible.

And they were all reaching for Dean’s omega.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggery spoilers: Ellen has been shot, and the wound is briefly described before Dean puts towels on it. You can safely read from "Shut up, I'm not an invalid."
> 
> PhD update: I’m heading into the field for data sampling and reception is super scatty out there. I’ll still be writing but might not get to your comments quite as quickly...  
> 


	20. The Foyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is surrounded by competitors that Dean has to fight off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have shitty internet so gertiecraign and hazeldomain beta'd this basically from a block of text sent in an email. While simultaneously discussing sex noises.  
> Gods really do walk among us.  
> Anything clever or well-planned is theirs.  
> All errors are mine.

He didn’t even have to make the conscious decision to move. One moment he was stationary and the next he was in flight. There was an omega beacon made of blue eyes and the pitiful whine was still echoing in the suddenly enormous room.

_Blue, blue. My omega._

He was barefoot and logically he knew that it was his feet that were hitting the ground but they didn’t feel like feet. They felt like claws, or maybe even talons. His alpha teeth shoved out from the tops of his gums, fully extended, and they felt overly sensitive, like maybe they could _taste_ omega in the air. And they _itched_ , begging to lodge into something soft. The back of an omega’s neck, or the jugular of an alpha.

But even as he snarled his way across the foyer he saw hands reaching, reaching, and a part of him knew that the Warriors were only reacting to the omega call, same as he was, but they were towering over his omega, leaking alpha, and the animal part of him was going to rip them to _shreds_ for daring to touch what wasn’t theirs. He felt himself drop, lowering his centre of gravity, almost on all fours. _Mine._

His omega’s eyes were still on him, and he couldn’t look away. _Blue, blue. Mine._ He was almost there. An alpha hand came down to cup his omega’s cheek, and a thumb slipped between parted lips. But that was _his_ job. _His_ comfort to give. And if Castiel had been mated this wouldn’t even be a problem, the omega call would have gone unnoticed, but of course his master’s neck was pale and unmarked so the whine had gone straight into the blood of every alpha in earshot and now Dean was going to have to fight them off to get close. The lucid part of his brain—getting more distant with every step forward—was aware that this was why there were usually only omegas in the house.

As he watched he saw one hand circling a slim omega wrist, and one was on an omega shoulder. Another hand grabbed for the first, yanking it away. Hands on Castiel’s body and around him, too, fighting each other off even as they tried to get closer. With every passing moment they became less like protectors and more like competitors, and if one of them came out on top there was a real chance that the omega would be the prize.

The growl that ripped itself from his throat was more beast than human. _Mine._ He tucked his right shoulder down and tensed, before launching himself headlong into the alpha wall that stood between him and his omega.

The collision sounded like a thunderclap and his hands were lightning as he ripped his way closer, no thought, just flesh and teeth and blue eyes blinking at him once, twice. An elbow in the kidney, his own fist in the flesh of someone’s belly. A guttural roar that could have come from him but was maybe just the rush of blood in his ears. _My omega. MINE._ A jaw snapping shut, narrowly missing his bicep. A foot arcing towards his knee. A knife clattering to the ground. The taste of blood. He shoved closer but there were bodies in the way. Someone’s hand in his omega’s hair, carding back to the nape of the neck. His own hand tearing it away. Trying to sink teeth into the fragile skin. An arm around his throat, cutting off his air, hauling him backwards. He kicked out and connected with something solid, a crunchy sound like breaking cartilage. The arm wrenched around to roll him out of the fray, but his omega’s eyes were still on him, blinking blue, omega fear, and he ducked down low to re-enter, couldn’t look away, even as the alpha circle grew tighter. _That’s MINE. My omega._

He growled, low and murderous. _Blue, blue. My omega._

The alphas weren’t even looking at him anymore. He could take them out from behind. A knuckled punch into the back of the closest one, breaking his hold if not his spine. A sidestep left to the big male. A palm under the sternum, ribs splintering up into lungs. Then the girl, slower because she was younger. Her blood would distract the last one.

He went onto all fours and howled.

A door on his right crashed open and he almost didn’t notice. An omega flew into the room, and his brain supplied the name _Benny_ but he wasn’t paying attention to that part of his brain right now, only had room for _blue, blue, blue,_ his omega blinking at him and begging for comfort. Competitors that he was going to rip apart. He prepared to leap forward. Another omega came skidding into the foyer, eyes wide, and he would have ignored her too but in his periphery he saw that she was holding…

_Was that a zucchini?_

He turned his head a distracted fraction, eye contact breaking, and the alpha haze shifted immediately. He felt himself slow, and the female omega ( _Meg,_ he realised) looked towards him.

He blinked, and blinked again, squirming under the influence of the alpha haze until suddenly the sound of Ellen shouting grew loud, and the omega whine receded, like a radio tuning into a new frequency. He shook himself, and stood upright again.

That god damn zucchini.

He turned back to the stairs but instead of a crowd of competitors around his omega he saw them for what they really were: alphas in a haze, acting on instinct, ramping each other up on a feedback loop of violence that wouldn’t end until either Castiel calmed down or one of them came out victorious. Between their legs and grasping hands his master _(just_ _my master_ _not my omega not mine not mine)_ clutched at his hair, looking grey, quivering under the overpowering smell of alpha. In the space of a heartbeat Dean saw him lean over, his arm wobbling pitifully, and vomit onto the pristine foyer floor. The Warriors circled tighter, just limbs and teeth, and Dean forced himself not to jump back into attack mode. His master needed Dean the strategist, the Hunter, not Dean the violent alpha.

_My master, not my omega. Just my master._

Calming Castiel down would be impossible with the alphas crowding close. He needed a distraction.

“Benny!” he shouted. “Use your pheromones!” He pointed at the Warriors, and hoped the pleasure slave could figure the rest out.

He took a breath and held it. If Benny was paying attention then the alphas would be distracted by the scent of pleasure slave, and Dean would be able to get to his master without a fight.

But if Benny wasn’t paying attention then he was about to run headlong back into a group of warring alphas, and that was not a fight he was going to win with one lungful of air.

Castiel’s hand came up to reach toward him, and Dean was inexplicably reminded of his dream; the one with the wings. Castiel had been reaching then, too, but in the dream Dean hadn’t been able to offer any help.

He squared his shoulders. If he had been able to breath in he would have offered a prayer to anyone listening up above, but he figured he didn’t really know how praying worked, and anyway the only person he could think of to pray to would be his master.

And wasn't that a thought.

_Well, here goes._

He charged.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horrendously short chapter award goes to yours truly.
> 
> The next chapter is written, though, so... not too long to wait??


	21. The Doctor

_Artists. Preference: omega. Best stimulus: noise and light._

_Warriors. Preference: alpha. Best stimulus: cages._

_Angels. Preference: beta. Best stimulus: pain._

_Caretakers. Preference: omega. Best stimulus: varied (see notes)._

—From the personal notes of Dr. C. Hess

 

Dr. Hess wasn’t particularly old, but that didn’t stop her bones from creaking wearily as she heaved herself into the large leather chair. _What a day._ It had been busy right from opening. The regular influx of sniffly noses and watery eyes, plus a broken femur, an unscheduled heat, and two pregnant slaves. She massaged the area between her eyes. The slaves had been the easiest to treat, as usual. Never complaining and always following directions. Well, as soon as she showed them how to behave, of course.

Jaqueline slipped her head into the room. “Cup of tea, Mistress?”

She considered it, but shook her head. Her husband would be waiting at home with dinner. “Bring the car round,” she ordered instead. Jaqueline slipped out as silently as she had arrived.

She was a good girl, Jaqueline. A beta Angel. Didn’t get on well with the other Angels, but that was to be expected, and Dr. Hess preferred to keep her Angels separated anyway, rather than risk the squabbles. Some masters let their slaves work out their own arguments, but Dr. Hess didn’t go in for that sort of thing. A slave was to be managed, same as an employee. Strengths were supposed to be nurtured, and weaknesses to be eliminated. And Angel limitations included an inability to work with other Angels. A frustrating tendency, especially in this industry, but nothing that couldn’t be worked around with correct management and discipline, or, failing that, a removal from the system entirely. Assimilation or elimination. She prided herself on weeding out the lost causes, and she had a system in place to ensure the simplest method of removal. But only if there was no hope of retraining, of course. There was no point in wasting a perfectly good slave if all they needed was a sterner hand.

The phone rang. That would be Dennis, checking to see how far she was. She had acquired an exceptional cook last month, and dinner would be spectacular. It always was. She licked her lips and lifted the phone.

— _need a doctor how soon can you get here she’s been shot in the leg and he keeps passing out but his eyes are the same size I think that’s a good thing but I can’t remember how soon can you get here I had to lock the door but now we’re stuck in the kitchen I don’t think_ —

She yanked the phone away from her ear.

Not Dennis.

“Jaqueline!” she yelled. “Did you forget to turn the external number off for the night?” No response. She gingerly put her ear back to the receiver. The person on the other end was still babbling. “Calm down,” she snapped, and the voice stopped immediately. Must be a slave. “Speak slowly. And clearly. Is someone injured?”

— _Ellen’s been shot and Master Novak has a concussion but I_ —

Dr. Hess rubbed her eyes. Slaves were always so emotional.

“Jaqueline! Do we know a Master Novak?”

“He’s the omega that lives by himself out past the West Forest,” came the reply. She poked her head into the room, looking pale. “I forgot about the phones, Mistress. Sorry.”

Dr. Hess glared, but saved her punishment for later. She thought longingly of her husband and the hot meal waiting for her at home. It was a forty minute drive to the West Forest, but she was the closest doctor. The hospital was another hour away.

She didn’t bother trying to keep the annoyance out of her tone as she asked if there was an Angel available, or another master. And of course there wasn’t. Because why would an unmated omega move to the middle of nowhere and get himself a trained Angel? She almost threw her phone across the room, but managed to restrain herself for long enough to let the slave tell her about the injuries.

“Sounds like a concussion,” she sighed. She would have to go out there after all. “Keep him warm, in case of shock. And make sure he’s kept somewhere quiet, and dark. He can’t move around too much.” The slave kept talking but she wasn’t really listening. She was trying to calculate how much she could charge for the after-hours visit. Then he said something about a kitchen, and some alphas.

“Wait, _what?_ The _kitchen?_ He needs to be somewhere calm. Preferably his own bedroom.”

— _The Warriors were hazing out so Benny had to use pheromones to get them to back off so I could get Master clear and now we’re locked in the kitchen until they calm down how far away are you_ —

Unbelievable.

An unmated omega moving to the middle of nowhere with a bunch of alphas. Absolutely typical. She sighed.

“I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

So much for a hot dinner with her husband.

\---------------

Dean dropped his master’s cell onto a stainless-steel bench and, not for the first time, he wondered how his night had ended up like this. Sure, he was alone with his master like he’d wanted, but the kitchen was cold and neither of them was naked and one of them was unconscious.

Someone hammered on the door, and Benny’s voice filtered through. “We’re good out here, chief. You can come out now.” Dean crept over and unlocked the door carefully, opening it a crack. The air outside was still heavy with alpha and omega scents, but there were no Warriors in sight.

“How’s Ellen?” he asked.

“She ain’t interested in goin’ to any hospital, chief. She says that she—”

“—won’t leave the house like this!” Ellen’s voice bellowed from behind him.

Dean rolled his eyes. He saw Meg standing behind Benny. “Keep pressure on the wound,” he told her. Benny stayed by the door, and after a moment Dean realised that he was waiting for instructions, too. Waiting for instructions from _Dean._ The doctor had told him to hand over control to a master, but Castiel was out of commission and apparently that made him the next best place to find direction. “Ah,” he said. “Can you give me a hand with Master Novak? We have to get him upstairs.”

“Sure thing, brother,” Benny replied easily, and it should have surprised Dean how effortless it was to give orders, but it didn’t feel weird when it was just Benny.

He opened the door wider, and Benny slipped into the chilly kitchen, moving over to Castiel immediately. The earthy smell of him got lost under something Dean couldn’t place as he stared down at their master. Dean could see the muscles of his jaw working soundlessly.

“Is he goin’ to die?” the omega finally asked, carefully emotionless.

Dean gaped. “N-no! The doctor said it’s just a concussion!”

It was as though Benny had been held up by strings, and Dean had cut them all at once. He sagged against the bench, still staring down at his lifeless master. It was the most emotion Dean had ever seen from him. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

“Yeah. Jesus, Benny! What the hell?”

“When I saw the Warriors around him… Brother, I thought, I thought…”

“It’s cool, Benny, it’s cool. He’s fine. It’s just a concussion.”

“And you’re _sure?_ ”

“Positive. I’ve seen them before. Had a couple myself.”

Benny stared at him, as though trying to figure out if he would lie. Whatever he saw on Dean’s face must have convinced him, though, because he let out a breath and his scent climbed down from the peak it had been hovering at. “Yeah,” he said, a little unsteady. His fingers went through the short hair on the top of his head, scratching harshly. “Yeah,” he said again. “Alright, chief. I trust you.”

In that moment, with Castiel unconscious and an assassin on the loose outside, Benny’s trust felt like a weight that might be too heavy to carry.

 

 


	22. The Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone remains fully clothed and there are no shenanigans.

“If you take that side I’ll go here and—” Benny and Dean manoeuvred Castiel between them gently, trying not to jostle him too much, until he was slung between their arms, feet only just touching the floor. It wasn’t comfortable in the slightest, Castiel wasn’t little by any means, and Dean wondered how he had carried his master single-handedly into the kitchen to begin with.

“Ready?” he huffed, and they started slowly for the exit.

Castiel stirred groggily when they hit the stench of the foyer, but didn’t wake up. Ellen tried to offer them some tea as they walked slowly past, possibly trying to prove that she was still capable of performing her housekeeper duties and therefore didn’t need to go to the hospital. Meg shut her up with another towel on her leg. Dean glanced back once but the smell of blood wasn’t strong, and the makeshift bandages appeared to be doing their job. He let himself turn away, trusting in Meg’s abilities.

They carried Castiel as gently as they could up the stairs, and Dean tried to ignore how his master’s arm rested across the back of his neck, fingers limply scratching the skin of his chest. There was a bruise there that probably came from a Warrior’s fist, though he didn’t remember getting it. Castiel’s hand tapped against it with every step as they laboriously climbed upwards. He was wheezing by the top, though Benny looked unfazed, and this wasn’t really the time to remember that Benny was still in better form than he was, so he looked away.

“On the mattress,” he directed, when they edged into the bedroom. At the last moment he remembered that he had left the scent of his alpha pleasure all over the bed and curtains, but it was too late to go back. “Shut up,” he muttered, as Benny sniffed interestedly.

“Didn’t say nothin', chief,” Benny chuckled, but they got Castiel onto the bed without any further commentary. “Now what?” Benny asked, and if it had been weird giving orders it was even weirder being asked for them, especially since he didn’t really have any idea.

“Um,” he said cleverly. “The doctor said to get him warm, and keep the room quiet, and dark, so…”

Benny switched the light off as Dean tucked the blanket around his lax master, tugging off his shoes, and his inner alpha purred.

 _Not the time,_ he told it. Castiel had been knocked out by a concussion and four alpha attack scents ( _five,_ shit, he had been just as bad as the Warriors), but the alpha part of him couldn’t distinguish unconscious Castiel from fucked-out and sated Castiel, and apparently that warranted sending a bit of extra blood southwards because all of a sudden he was blushing and angling himself away from Benny.

“Where are the Warriors?” he asked, to distract from the obvious bulge.

“Locking down. Looking for an outsider.”

Dean rubbed his face. “Can you… Can you tell two of them to go to the next property? Warn them that there might be danger in the area? Tell the Warriors to stay there if the neighbours don’t have enough guards.”

“Aye aye, chief. You’ll stay with Master?”

With a poker face of steel, Dean gestured to Castiel’s silent form. “I think he should wake up next to a familiar scent, don’t you?”

“Hm?”

“I… I think I should… y’know… make sure he wakes up in a calm atmosphere. Doctor’s orders.”

Benny eyed him, but didn’t say anything as he made for the door.

“Remember to check the doctor for weapons when they arrive,” Dean said to his retreating back, and he didn’t even have to wonder if the order would be followed.

Castiel murmured fitfully, and when Dean looked down he was making aborted twitches, limbs moving uncoordinatedly under the blanket.

Carefully, and with a certain amount of guilt that was probably related to the chub in his boxers, he lowered himself onto the bed next to his master, casually leaving the blanket between them to claim innocence if this was taken the wrong way. He favoured his left side, settling carefully to avoid a bruise on his thigh that probably belonged to a Warrior’s boot. When he was stretched out fully he grabbed the bag of ice and replaced it at the back of his master’s head, then let one leg fold over the top of the omega’s waist, and an arm over his chest, using the weight to hold his master steady.

 _Keep him calm, and still, and quiet,_ he told himself again. Castiel sighed in his hold, a mirror to the content alpha purring in Dean’s belly, and blinked his eyes open. The room was dark, and there were no adrenaline-fueled alphas in the vicinity, and Dean waited to see if that would be enough to keep his master calm.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, confused but blessedly lucid. “What happened?”

“You’ve got a concussion,” Dean whispered. “There’s a doctor coming.”

Castiel made a face and shifted beneath him. “Hurts,” he said.

“I know, I know. Just stay still, and try to whisper. You’ll feel better soon.”

Castiel made a face again, a shadow of the pain and confusion from the foyer, and it occurred to Dean that he had been close, _absurdly_ close, to catastrophe this afternoon. If the assassin had been a better shot, or if Meg hadn’t been holding the zucchini, or if Benny hadn’t used his pleasure slave pheromones, or if one of the alphas had been stronger than the others… Without thinking he found his nose tucked into the crook of his master’s neck, scenting in unsteady breaths.

He froze, but Master Novak wasn’t pushing him away, so he settled more fully, bringing his master in close. Castiel was so… fragile. Just a little human that could easily be taken away. One tiny bullet was all that stood between Dean and a return to the Saleyards. He crowded in, tighter than before, nudging his nose over Castiel’s neck, his ear, the top of his cheek, back down to his jaw. Proving to himself that his master was here, and alive, and _warm._ The smell of pained omega was obvious but under it… _there!_ Dean could smell the rain-soaked fields of his master. And for once he wasn’t being pushed away. He breathed in deep, savouring it, and he didn’t mean anything by it, was just providing comfort, and seeking it, but then Castiel’s nose nudged against his caste mark and scented him back, and the smell of hurt omega switched almost instantly to pleasure.

Dean rolled away guiltily, prepared to back off completely, but Castiel made a pained noise, reaching for him through the blanket.

“Shh,” Dean soothed, covering him again. “You’re hurt. Just stay still.”

“My… head…” Castiel tried to reach for the wound, frowning drowsily when his hands were stopped by the blanket. He grimaced, and his body instinctively angled itself into Dean’s. He was still seeking comfort but this time the room wasn’t soaked in Warrior adrenaline and alpha fear, and Dean was close. He let himself rock down, gentle, gentle, starting from his toes and rolling upwards so Castiel could feel the entire alpha body that encompassed him. Dean moved again, the same slow roll. Protection, and comfort, and warmth. The blanket was in between them and Castiel was still fully clothed underneath, but this wasn’t anything sexual, it wasn’t even about pleasure, it was just the slow rocking of hips, and the smell of content omega.

Well, that’s what he was telling himself, anyway. His dick hadn’t quite gotten with the program but he was hoping the blanket would keep Castiel from noticing the start of a hard-on.

“Shh,” he whispered as Castiel scented him. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay. Doctor’s coming soon.”

“Doctor? Castiel slurred, still blinking blearily.

Dean hummed an affirmative. “Hess. She’ll make it better. You’re gonna be—”

“Doctor Hess?” Castiel was suddenly awake, and he was no longer simply squirming beneath the blanket but downright struggling. Dean tried to hold him still without hurting him further.

“Master, wait, hold up! Settle down!”

“Why did you call _Hess,_ ” Castiel hissed, furious, and he kicked out. The bag of ice fell away but neither of them went to retrieve it.

“She… she was in your phone as ‘Emergency Medical.’”

“Fuck, she’ll… she’s…” Castiel was still struggling, but the smell of pain was sharp. Dean tried to angle his head down, to force his master to scent him again, but Castiel kept pushing him away.

“Calm down,” Dean begged. “Please, come on. Master, _please,_ you have to stay still. No one likes doctors but she’ll only be here a few minutes. You’re injured, sir, come on. Settle down!” He added a tiny growl to the last part out of instinct and half expected his master to growl right back, but with a grunt of pain Castiel went rigid and Dean manhandled him back beneath the blanket, securing him again from where he’d struggled free. He bent down low so his own scent could infuse the room, but Castiel refused to relax.

“What have you done,” he was whimpering, wracked by whole-body shudders that could have been pain but smelled inexplicably like fear.

“Master!” he cried. “You’re okay! The alphas are gone! Everything’s fine!”

Castiel groaned. “You don’t understand,” he said, eyes closed and whole body tight. “She’s part of the syndicate.”

It felt like a sucker punch to the gut. His arms almost gave out. “W-What?”

“She’s an informant. A friend of Crowley’s.”

His arms actually did give out at that one, and he ended up sprawled over his master’s body. “Oh,” he whispered, voice small.

He had just invited her into the house.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, another wasted sex scene.
> 
> But they're in the right room now, so thing's are looking up (pun INTENDED)


	23. The Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Talking and Pillows, but no pillow talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This night is taking forever but Dean and Cas have some Shit with a capital S that they have to Talk. About.

THERE

_The Caretaker was trembling so violently that its teeth were actually chattering. The sound was like ice picks through his brain. That, combined with his bad mood, didn’t bode well for it._

_“Where iss the omega’ss head?” he hissed._

_“M-Master, s-s-s-sir, there was a-a-a-“_

_“If you ssay Hunter I will rip the tongue from your mouth, filth.”_

_The slave’s legs gave out, and it dropped to its knees on the rough stone floor._

_“P-p-please, sir, h-he covered the m-master with his b-b-b-body.”_

_“I don’t care,” he snarled, rising from his throne. “Shoot the masster through the sslave. Through a thousand sslavess.” The Caretaker whimpered, teeth chattering, chattering, chattering, and he imagined the sound its neck would make when he got his fist around it._

 

\----------------------

 

HERE

Master Novak had to stay in bed and Ellen was shot and there was an assassin somewhere on the grounds and Master Novak had to stay in bed and a doctor was coming but she was _not_ a friend and Master Novak had to _stay in the fucking bed._

“Sir, _please,_ you have to stop moving.”

Castiel was bucking against him, but not in a good way. Every movement was accompanied by a grunt of pain, and Dean had had enough concussions to know what that felt like. The blow to the back of his master’s head would be shooting agonising streaks of fire everywhere; into Castiel’s skull, and down the back of his neck, and lower.

He held the blanket tight, trying to keep his master trapped beneath it, but Castiel was _pissed._

“Get _off,_ ” he snarled, and kicked out once before falling back against the pillows with his eyes squeezed shut. Dean chose to ignore the order. Hess could be evil incarnate for all he knew, but she was a doctor and she had told him that Master Novak needed to remain calm, and still, and for the moment those orders were going to trump his master’s.

“Shh,” he soothed, stretching his neck back down towards his master’s nose, and ignoring the attempts to throw him off. He got his hips down low, too, and let them rest against Castiel’s. Everything he could think of to make him pliant. Any other omega would go lax with an alpha on all fours above them, but when had Castiel ever conformed to stereotypes, biological or otherwise?

Castiel grunted and jerked away, but couldn’t get free. “Is this supposed to be a punishment?” he growled. Dean considered growling back.

“It’s not _punishment,_ sir, would you just… You’re _injured._ Why would I—”

“—For coercing you into talking about your last master.”

“Jesus,” Dean cursed, “of _course not,_ Master, you have a concussion. You need to stay _still._ ” He remembered what Benny had said, about Castiel feeling guilty. “And, I, uh… I forgive you for that, by the way.” It felt completely backward to be forgiving a _master_ , especially while restraining said master on a bed, but if that’s what was needed…

“About fucking time.”

Dean pulled back to gape down at Castiel, who had finally gone still but was glaring up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Been making do with Meg and Benny but you never made it easy… the smell of you all over the house.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” _Making do?_

“Figured you would need some time. But two weeks, Hunter. _Two weeks._ God, I was so frustrated, and Meg is wonderful but not… not what I need.”

Castiel had needed him.

“I would’ve come,” Dean said weakly.

Castiel wasn’t listening, or perhaps he couldn’t. “Completely inappropriate,” he muttered. “I am your _master._ ”

“I know, I—”

“—make me wait—”

“No! That’s not—”

“Could’ve _ordered_ you—”

“Yes, Master _calm down!_ ”

But Castiel couldn’t hear him. His eyes had squeezed shut. He bucked again and groaned in pain. “Let me _up,_ ” he ordered. He managed to get a hand free and reached up to probe the back of his head. “Hurts,” he said, and it should have been a whimper but it came out as a growl. Wincing, Dean gently pulled the hand away and replaced it beneath the blanket, correcting his posture to hold his master down more firmly.

“I know it hurts, but that’s what I’m here for,” he murmured. “Any time. Even if… even if I’m mad, okay?”

Castiel’s eyebrows were furrowed. “Hunter?”

“Yeah, Master, I’m here.”

“Wha-what happened?”

Dean sighed. This conversation was going to get pretty one-sided if only one of them had memory recall. Then again, if Castiel forgot about Ellen, and Hess, he might be a little easier to calm down…

“Shh,” he murmured, “you’re okay. It’s fine.”

“It’s _not._ ”

“Just a concussion. Doctor’s coming.”

“She’ll find something,” Castiel snarled, eyes refocusing. So much for forgetting Hess. “She’ll see you and she… she’ll _know._ They _know._ A-about you. Damn it, Hunter, every time I think I can trust you—”

“—come on, now—”

“—something like _this_ happens. Same as New York.”

And oh, okay. They were going to talk about _this_ now, were they?

“This has nothing to do with New York,” he snapped, and when Castiel tried to interrupt he kept going. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to buy from Crowley,” he said, leaning back to catch his master’s eye, “but I’ll never be sorry for kissing you that night, or… or anything else from the pleasure house.”

“I was _that close,_ ” Castiel growled.

“You could have died.” As he said it he remembered; the run down the alleyway, the adrenaline like electricity, the sound of his own breath coming in gasps, Castiel flailing behind. The Angel had been _right there,_ wielding a knife with icy calm. “You could have _died,_ ” he said again, because now it was _twice._ An assassin had tried to kill him _twice._ “Don’t… what would I… you _can’t._ ” His hands had moved without his permission to frame Castiel’s face, which was stuck somewhere between a growl and grimace. The furrow was back between his eyebrows and Dean wanted to put his lips there, but Castiel kicked out at him again and he remembered that he was supposed to be keeping his master still. “Shh,” he murmured, but it felt like he was soothing himself instead of Castiel.

He lay himself back over his master’s body, and surreptitiously sniffed at him. Castiel was alive. Castiel was injured, but alive, and he was right here, underneath him. The familiar rainy scent was almost lost beneath the smell of pained omega, but it was there. He settled more fully, and bracketed his master’s legs with his own, wishing the blanket wasn’t between them. Castiel shoved at him, but he was too weak to push him away. “You could have died,” Dean said again, and it came out almost silent, right into the skin of his master’s neck.

“That’s beside the… I don’t… You are not at fault for… for the thing you did in the pleasure house.”

 _You mean when I kissed you,_ he wanted to say. _When you kissed me back._ He wanted to say it out loud so bad that he could almost taste the words. He wanted to remind his master of what it had felt like. He wanted to do it again.

“But,” Castiel continued, oblivious, “everything after that should… It should not have happened.”

_You mean how we fucked for the entire night and you screamed my name and we kissed, and kissed, and kissed…_

“You liked it,” Dean whispered. His nose was against Castiel’s skin and it was an immense force of will to stop his lips from descending to the same spot. “You wanted it.”

“That’s the _problem,_ ” Castiel snapped, and he shoved at Dean’s shoulder before groaning and collapsing backwards. Dean scented at him again, trying to get him to calm down, but Castiel had already given up, panting against the mattress with his eyes tightly shut. His dark hair was fanned out across the white, white pillows and Dean was trying very hard not to find that appealing.

“What’s the problem?” he asked distractedly, keeping his body over his master’s in case he tried to get up again.

“You _know_ what the problem is,” Castiel hissed. “I’m an _omega._ ”

Dean rubbed his nose into the sensitive spot behind his master’s ear. “Yes, you are,” he agreed on a hum. _Pretty omega._

“It’s supposed to put the syndicate off, make them think I’m useless.” He barked a laugh that sounded nothing like a laugh should. Cold. He was moving restlessly, but had stopped trying to push Dean off. “Useless omega,” he sneered. “Doing a pretty good job of proving them right.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes 16/5/17 sorry for delay in updating. Shit has gone absolutely sideways out here and i have not had an opportunity to so much as look at a computer. Fic will resume when PhD shenanigans settle down.


	24. The Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a nickname is banned for all of two seconds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in end notes.

THERE

_The Caretaker’s teeth were still chattering, chattering. It had curled in on itself, making itself small, just a filthy mound of skin and bone and noisy, inexcusable teeth._

_“Bring me the failure,” he ordered. He could already feel his arms elbow-deep in the viscera of this newly failed assassin._

_“She didn’t return,” the Caretaker moaned._

_A haze of red descended, and when next he opened his eyes the Caretaker was gone. Blood dripped from the ceiling, and a dismembered limb twitched feebly in the corner. The echo of a scream was still ringing from the walls._

_The sound of chattering teeth was blessedly absent._

_He wrenched open the closest door, where another slave stood trembling. There was a stain at its crotch, and the acrid stench of urine hung in the air._

_“Get me photoss of the Hunter,” he snarled. “And bring me Gaines.”_

 

\-------------------------

 

HERE

Castiel was sneering, but the expression made no sense on his face because he wasn’t sneering at Dean, but himself. The word ‘useless’ was hanging in the air as well and Dean had heard that word from another master once before, but it made no sense here. The word sounded like a weapon, sharpened by months of hatred, but it wasn’t directed at Dean, like it had been the last time. ‘Useless’ was dripping from a master’s tongue but it was focused inward, not out.

Dean pulled back immediately. “You’re _WHAT?_ ”

Castiel wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring fixedly at the opposite wall. “Supposed to be finding this breeder but I can’t even go one meeting without wanting to kill them. Kill each and every one of them.”

“That… that doesn’t make you _useless,_ sir.”

Castiel’s mouth distorted into an indecipherable shape. “I had to get a fucking _alpha_ just to keep myself going.”

And wasn’t that a punch to the gut. But he had always known that Castiel only kept him around for one purpose.

For some reason, the saleyard receipt floated into his mind; how Castiel had crossed out the word _green,_ and he had thought for the briefest moment that his master’s notice had meant something more… But he shook the memory off.

“It’s not… not a _chore,_ Cas.”

“You can’t call me that,” Castiel said quickly. His body was tight beneath the blanket, and his face was still turned away, but Dean thought he looked… well, not _sad,_ exactly. Grieved. Tired. In pain. “It’s too dangerous. When you call me… when you say that name… It has to stop.”

“Dangerous?” Dean scoffed, but Castiel was being sincere. Did he mean that the nickname was too personal? “Is that why you wouldn’t look at me?” he asked. “After New York?”

Castiel’s lips pursed, and it was almost an agreement.

“You thought it would be dangerous if I called you something other than Master.”

Another non-disagreement.

“Is this… Are you blaming New York on a _nickname,_ sir?” When Castiel didn’t reply for a third time Dean felt like shaking him, concussion be damned, but he hung his head instead, trying to get the image out of his mind. The image of Castiel telling him to yield while Dean knelt on the hotel carpet.

“Master, it’s no one’s _fault._ Don’t… neither of us _knew_ that that would happen. That Crowley would be at the hotel.”

“I _should’ve._ ” Castiel turned back to glare at him, and his mouth was twisted in disgust but it was directed inward. “I should’ve known. I should’ve been in control. That’s what I’m _supposed_ to be. But one alpha and a bit of adrenaline and that stupid fucking _name_ and I was _useless._ ”

“Not useless.” Dean wanted to nose at him again but he didn’t. He kept his face high to maintain eye contact. “You saved me, Cas,” He ignored the way Castiel flinched at the nickname. “And Benny. And Meg. And the Warriors and, fuck, even crotchety old Ellen. Whatever else happens, there’s always the ones you’ve saved.”

The silence lasted a few seconds.

“You found the notebook?”

Dean winced, realising too late that he had given himself away, though he didn’t regret snooping now that he could use the saleyard receipts to his advantage. “Sorry,” he said, but it sounded insincere even to himself.

“Hunter…”

Dean cut across him. “What are the flowers for?”

Castiel scowled, but was suitably distracted. “They’re from… a friend. Someone who said I would need them. You shouldn’t have opened it.”

“Was just looking.” He paused, and chose his next words carefully. How to make his master see? “All the slaves…” he began. “We’re all missing records. No one would have wanted us. God, no one wanted _me._ No one else would have bought us. ‘Cept you.”

“It means my slaves are loyal,” Castiel replied monotonously, as though reciting from memory. “They’ll never disobey. They owe me too much.”

“Is that what you told the syndicate?”

“Dean…”

He sighed happily, and felt his spine loosen. His name sounded good on Castiel’s tongue. Rough-edged and perfect. “You said my name,” he hummed.

Castiel pursed his lips, the picture of frustration. “Hunter,” he rectified, “you appear to be operating under the illusion that I am a ‘good guy’.”

“You are.” Dean nuzzled at him, then pulled back when he felt a foot attempt to connect with his calf.

“No, Dean.” His name again. “I am first and foremost a buyer. I have one job and that’s to find a specific breeder, get the slaves out, and send the master or masters behind the operation to jail. My cover will be blown and then— _only then_ —will I be a ‘good guy’.” Dean tried to cut across but Castiel wasn’t finished. “I’m not your _friend,_ I’m not here to _help._ ” It was the same speech as the hotel in New York. How long had Castiel had been practicing it? “I have a job to do and thanks to you it’s already taking a month longer than it should have.”

“Cas…”

“ _Don’t call me that._ I cannot—no, listen—I C _an. Not._ afford a mistake like that again. I can’t keep living like this. I need this to be _done,_ Dean. I need those slaves freed and if I have to send you back to the saleyards to do it then _that’s where you will go._ ”

“Master, wait—”

“You played your part well, made it look like you were being punished after New York, any outsider would’ve fallen for it—”

“After New York? When you wouldn’t look at me? Master I thought you _were_ punishing me!”

Castiel wasn’t listening. “—but now Hess will turn up and see that I still have you around and you’re still running amok and—”

“—Wait, what? Running amok?”

Castiel growled and shifted beneath the blanket, and Dean was once again aware that he was holding his master down.

Running amok, indeed.

He blushed, but didn’t get up.

“I’m a pleasure slave, right?”

“You’re an _alpha._ ”

“Maybe… but maybe you called me up here to help you calm down after your harrowing ordeal?” Castiel scoffed, but Dean kept going. “Maybe you needed someone to take care of you.”

That was the wrong thing to say, and Castiel shoved at him.

“Okay, okay, not take care of you. You don’t need anyone to take care of you. Big scary omega like you. Just needed to release some tension, right? Isn’t that right, Master? Or maybe I’m the one that needed to be taken care of.”

“Get _up,_ ” his master said, but he wasn’t disagreeing with Dean’s idea. “I have to make sure there’s nothing for Hess to find.”

“There’s nothing,” Dean soothed. “Come on, Master. Take care of me.” He let his eyes go big to stare straight into Castiel’s, and it should have been a criminal act, to share eye contact with a master, but Castiel was staring back, same as usual. “Take care of me,” Dean repeated, and he felt an answering movement beneath him. A tiny shift in Castiel’s posture, almost imperceptible. The difference between leaning into Dean, instead of against him.

For all he acted like he was immovable, Castiel was unable to deny the omega requirement to comfort an alpha, same as Dean had been unable to ignore the call to protect an injured omega.

“I was so scared,” he whined, moving his own hips in mirror to his master’s. Castiel’s eyes were blue like skylight. Blue like rainwater. “So worried, Master. Need you.” He wanted to nuzzle down but he kept eye contact instead. “Come on, come on,” he murmured. “Need to feel you, Master. Need to know you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Castiel automatically crooned. An omega response that Dean didn’t give him a chance to overthink.

“Prove it,” he begged. “Show me that you’re okay, Master. Let me feel it.” He breathed in the smell of omega, and it was pain and confusion but also _Castiel._ Rain and saltwater. “Was so scared,” he murmured. He saw Castiel’s body again, prostate on the ground next to a bullet-shaped hole in the car window. “Thought I’d lost you,” he said, and okay, that one hit a little close to home and it wasn’t such a joke anymore. “Come on, Cas,” he pushed.

“You can’t call me that,” Castiel said quickly, shaking himself free from the innate omega need to comfort. But Dean’s begging had done its work, and Castiel didn’t sound aggressive. He sounded… kind of breathless?

“Call you what?” Dean teased.

“You… you know what.”

Dean leaned right down until his lips were brushing the shell of his master’s ear, and his breath was hot on the sensitive skin. “Oh,” he murmured. “You mean I shouldn’t call you _Cas._ ”

Castiel huffed, but his legs widened slightly and Dean slipped easily between them. Castiel made a sound that was both pleased and annoyed.

“You see what I mean,” he muttered, almost to himself. “One alpha and I’m useless.”

“Not useless,” Dean murmured back. “My hero. Saved me. Need you to save me again, Cas.” Part of him rebelled at the damsel-in-distress routine but the other part was offline, running on instinct. Half alpha protection _(Get him in bed. Get him calm)_ and half alpha desire _(Get him in bed. Get him beneath me)_. Castiel thought he wasn’t the ‘good guy’ but he was _wrong._ He had _saved_ Dean from the saleyards, from two fucking years of getting beaten up and starved and ignored. Dean owed him everything. Everything he had to give, and then some. Even if he hadn’t worn the pleasure slave uniform he would have spent every waking minute figuring out how to repay that debt. And Castiel had the fucking nerve to think that he was weak for needing it. “Don’t know how you do it,” he said, and it was true. “Working with those assholes. Working with some fucking slave ring syndicate. _God,_ Cas, and you think it’s weak to get help wherever you can? Let me… let me help. I want to make it easy, Cas. Let me make it as easy as possible to do what you do.”

“You could just get off me,” Castiel pointed out, but his legs were wide and the blanket had been pushed to the side at some point and Dean’s hand automatically went to the fly of his master’s pants.

“Hess would expect you to make use of your slaves,” Dean murmured, sliding the zip down slowly, so slowly. “If anything, it would look suspicious if you _didn’t_ smell like alpha when she got here. I’m supposed to be keeping you calm.” And yeah, that was probably true, but the alpha part of him had much less charitable reasons for pushing Castiel’s pants down and helping him kick them off. “Come on, Cas,” he whispered, and the nickname sent a shiver up the omega’s spine. Dean put a palm against the bulge in his master’s underwear, and pressed down, feather light. He was rewarded with a tiny intake of breath, and then, finally, the scent of pain was overtaken by something else, and for the first time in two weeks Dean smelled omega slick.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggery warnings: graphic violence and implied murder in the first italicised bit.
> 
> Sorry for the wait friends. It’s shitsville in PhD land and as much as I want to spend every waking minute on this fic, I unfortunately have come down with a bad case of *responsibilities* and only have time to write on very rare occasions, thus the slow slow slow update schedule.  
> Anyway heads up for the medical experts out there, the next chapter is going to involve some non-approved treatments for concussion but look this is an AU and maybe that's just how these things work in this universe who's to say?
> 
> UPDATE 13-06-2018  
> Wow almost a year since I last updated i am so very, very sorry.  
> First announcement: I haven't given up on this fic! You guys I think about this goddamn story _all the time_. I had issues with the next chapters, though, which made me start procrastinating, which made me start writing other things, which made me procrastinate even more...  
>  Anyway I promise I'm not done, and I have the entire plot outlined already. A friend has the outline so if I die of old age before I update then at least she can tell you what was supposed to happen.  
> If you want updates on my writing you can follow my [writing tag](https://omgbubblesomg.tumblr.com/search/bubbles+writes) on tumblr, and I even have a specific tag for this fic, [which you can find here](https://omgbubblesomg.tumblr.com/search/bubbles+writes+all+yours) if you want updates about how I'm going.  
> Second announcement: Sorry I haven't replied to so many of your comments! I absolutely _love_ every single one. If you want me to update faster then for god's sake comment. There's no better encouragement in the world!


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